mW'H .;■•,:? 



• \\ 



t ,.' »^,.V'>•r'^f•(',"4■ 






1/ "' 



'■■ ,■;■ 'V- '. . 

:'. 'y ''Vt'^ 













■'i.J^i 



i^.^'Vi :;■ 




Class. 
Book. 



12&61I 



Copyright}!?. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




A long haired creature lead- 
ing a fox by a string. 



Brittany with Bergere 



BY 



WM. M. E. WHITELOCK 



WITH PICTURES BY 

DECIMA 




BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 

TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED 



Copyright, 1914, by Richard G. Badger 



All Rights Reserved 






Xhe Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A, 

191 

88 



V 25 1914 

CLA888567 



To 

CHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND 

Guide, Philosopher, and Friend 

This Book Is Dedicated 



FOREWORD 

I HAVE not aimed in this little book to give 
a comprehensive picture of Brittany and the 
Bretons; such a picture was not in the focus of a 
three weeks' trip in a dog-cart. Far less have I 
endeavored to set forth the customs, the history, 
the monuments of the country; these have been 
already amply recorded. Rather have I sought 
to imprison the elusive spirit of a happy, unfet- 
tered ramble, to sketch lightly the color, the 
warmth, the music of it all — truly, an almost im- 
possible task for cold prose. Yet, if I have been 
able to give some faint idea of the magic charm 
of Brittany, its simple, unspoiled people and their 
simple, placid life; if I have been able to hint at 
the joy of such a trip as ours and the ease with 
which it is made; if, above all, I have been able 
to suggest unrealized possibilities to those who 
love to see a country as it really is, I shall feel that 
I have not entirely failed in my purpose. At least 
I can know that the pleasure of writing these few 
chapters has not been wholly selfish. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Most Charming Man in the World .... 15 

II We Reach Rennes 18 

III Introducing Bergere 24 

IV The Open Road 28 

V Hede 34 

VI The First Menhir 44 

VII Le Mont Saint-Michel 54 

VIII The Gray Sea and a Calm Stream 73 

IX We Meet a Nut-Cracker 89 

X Moncontour 102 

XI We Make Several Mistakes iii 

XII The Pardon of Saint-Amateur 123 

XIII A Charming Hole 130 

XIV The Ejection of Jean Marie Pihuit 138 

XV The Little Sisters 142 

XVI The End of the Road 150 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

A long haired creature leading a fox by a string Frontispiece ^^ 

Deux dubonnets 15*^ 

II y a un " clergyman " dans men compartiment .... 21 "^ 

Mam'selle at Hede 35 *' 

A peculiarly unbeautiful infant 41 *- 

Joseph Leroux $iV 

A pig in a poke 57' 

La fille de Mere Lambert 63 »^ 

Do they cost very much, the photographs? 67 "^ 

But no — she had not visited the town — the hill was too 
steep 79 1/ 

All the starving cats and dogs 83 *^ 

The awful deed was accomplished 93 *^ 

Another nutcracker, by the way 99 >. ' 

I was obliged to kiss the brat 113 v 

Finally came the gymnastes 125 , ' 



BRITTANY WITH BERGERE 




Deux Dubonnets. 

BRITTANY WITH BERGERE 

I 

The Most Charming Man in the World 

THE planning is usually the best part of a trip. 
That is what Decima — Decima is my sister 
— and I thought when we decided to spend a few 
weeks abroad. First came the question of the 
country; which finally reduced itself to France. 
Then there was the particular Province — for to 
attempt to see too much is to miss everything. 
Brittany triumphed over the " Chateau Country," 
now worn almost to fragments by countless tourists 
and innumerable guidebooks; over Paris more 
American than French in the summer months; 
over the Gothic temptations of Normandy. Yet 
15 



1 6 Brittany with Berg ere 

why Brittany should have triumphed, Le Bon Dieu 
himself alone knew, for we certainly didn't; it 
could only have been a stroke of Genius. 

Even with the definite region decided upon, the 
delightful planning was only just begun. Next 
came the problem of locomotion. Trains were 
far too prosaic for so romantic a trip; automo- 
biles we despised as unworthy — though privately 
we knew that we couldn't have afforded one if we 
had wanted it: bicycles were the things! We 
would order them in Paris and have them sent to 
us at Boulogne and . . . 

But here Genius made a bad play and nearly 
upset the whole game. Of course, one of us had 
to get ill and leave matters in the hands of the 
other, and, of course, the other did not like to 
take all the responsibility. So when we met on 
board the steamship Friedrich Wtlhelm, all we 
knew was that we were bound for Boulogne, even- 
tually for Brittany, and that the convalescent must 
not ride a bicycle. 

Despair fell upon us. Cabins Nos. 102 and 
104 were shrouded in gloom; we spoke in mono- 
syllables. My meek suggestion that we emulate 
Stevenson by hiring a donkey and cart and drive 
around the whole coast of Brittany in three weeks 
was scornfully (and I see now, quite justly) 
scouted as absurd. I relapsed into mournful si- 
lence and regretted that I ever came. Then 



The Most Charming Man If 

Genius retrieved itself : we met The Most Charm- 
ing Man in the World. 

He was at one time president of the Alliance 
Frangaise in New York, had been made a mem- 
ber of the Legion d'Honneur for his services to 
the French in that city, possessed an unlimited 
fund of information about Brittany and was per- 
fectly delightful. He had never made, he said, 
such a trip as we were hoping to make and he 
doubted if we'd cover very much ground with a 
donkey; but, unless we minded a daily rain, a horse 
and carriage were perfectly feasible. Our sense 
of the romantic was a little shocked, but the prac- 
tical in us seized the suggestion with avidity and 
asked countless questions. " You'd better start 
from Rennes," said The Most Charming Man In 
the World. " I'll give you a card to my friend 
Anatole Le Braz who lives there — I'm sure he'd 
be glad to help you. He's really a delightful 
fellow." Having just read " An Pays des Par- 
dons'^ the name of the author was as magic to our 
ears. Thus the voyage ended in happy expecta- 
tion. 



II 

We Reach Rennes 

PORTS are much the same the world over, and 
landing is an invariably tedious matter. Bou- 
logne was no exception. A crowded ride on a 
tender {un remorqueur!) with the attendant 
struggle in a tiny office for railroad reservations; 
the usual absurd formula of a customs examina- 
tion by an unruffled, handsomely uniformed official 
in the midst of a surging mob; and then an hour 
to wait in the little depot on the Quai Chanzy 
with nothing to absorb one's attention but a large 
station clock on whose smug face a painter was 
busily inscribing the numbers one to twenty-four. 
Everywhere vendors were endeavoring — and 
usually successfully — to entrap the unwary. 
We helped to swell the number by the purchase 
of a luscious looking little basket of cherries, at 
an exorbitant price. I explained the high cost 
to Decima as due to the comparatively small size 
of the country and purchased them with a gran- 
diloquent air and a slight remuneration to the 
commere who sold them. Underneath the layer 
of fresh green leaves that supported the topmost 
berries we found — excelsior! And the old 



We Reach Rennes 19 

woman had the Impudence to come back later and 
insist I'd given her a Greek franc. The Most 
Charming Man in the World merely smiled at 
this example of French perfidy and said, 

" That's not cheating, it's merely putting the 
best face on things." I fear he was prejudiced. 

At last the whistle shrieked in the familiar 
high pitched tones and we bumped and rattled 
away from the sea, dotted with little brown-sailed 
fishing smacks. Away we went from the docks 
with their horde of grasping commisitonaires , out 
past the main station, by countless box cars quaintly 
labeled according to their capacity for men or 
horses, followed by ragged urchins whining for 
'' un p'tit sou, M'sieu, tin p'tit sou," past all the 
hideous factories and brickyards of the suburbs of 
a commercial town. Then we slid quietly into the 
country. 

And such a country! The wonderful smiling 
country, the land of gardens. The fields, a glori- 
ous mass of green and blue and red, broken by 
an occasional wooded patch, but usually every 
scrap of ground under cultivation — even the nar- 
row strips beside the tracks flecked with little 
tents of new mown hay — and splashed with color 
from the hand of the Great Painter. Here and 
there a road, guarded by a double row of bending 
poplars stretches like a golden ribbon towards 
the rolling horizon. Everywhere flowers — 



20 Brittany with Bergere 

glowing poppies, dainty bleuets, daisies, tiny morn- 
ing-glories clinging to the very rocks of the road- 
bed, and sometimes a dash of white water lilies 
on the surface of a calm pool. Now we pass a 
swamp surrounded with piles of peat, each care- 
fully numbered. There is a man with a mess of 
fish — the first successful French angler I've ever 
seen. And everywhere, too, little villages — an 
American woman sitting next us wants to know 
why they are all called '' Buvette " ! — are scat- 
tered through the waving fields; the tiled roofs 
and red, yellow, and white stucco walls lending 
additional color to the charm of the whole. 

There was a whistle, a glimpse of the magnifi- 
cent cathedral, and the train came to a stop before 
the very important-sounding but unprepossessing 
" Hotel du Globe et d' Amiens." I hurried out, 
but The Most Charming Man in the World, who 
was in the next carriage, got to the pushcart be- 
fore me and purchased the last bottle of beer. 
He was radiant at being released from German 
cooking and once more in his beloved France, and 
refused to speak a word of English. As we 
stepped into the train, he drew me into the vesti- 
bule at the end of one of the coaches and, drop- 
ping his voice to a delighted whisper, " II y a un 
' clergyman ' dans mon compartiment," he said — 
and offered me a glass of beer! 

Paris consisted, for us, in driving from the 




II y a un ''clergyman" 
dans mon comparti- 



ment. 



We Reach Rennes 23 

Gare du Nord to our accustomed hotel, a welcome 
dinner and more welcome beds, and then off next 
morning for Rennes. The horrors of that jour- 
ney are indescribable — nearly eight hours packed 
in a tightly closed compartment with six inhabi- 
tants of the country. Suffice it to say that the 
journey came, like most things, to an end, and we 
sank in exhausted heaps in our rooms at the Hotel 
Moderne. 



Ill 

Introducing Bergere 

TAKEN all in all, Rennes was a disappoint- 
ment. Enjoyment of a place is, of course, 
largely a matter of moods, and ours, perhaps, was 
not as cheerful as it should have been. To be 
sure, we felt we had justification. In the first 
place, Rennes was too large, and this seemed very 
unreasonable of Rennes, as we'd been looking for 
something quite small and rural and Breton; in- 
stead of which we found quite naturally a town of 
seventy-five thousand inhabitants, filled with cafes, 
cars and cabs and typically French. Second, peo- 
ple stared at us in a most disconcerting manner. 
Third, when we called on M. Le Braz with our 
card of introduction and a mental list of questions 
relating to the hire and keep of horses, the youth 
who opened the door replied in perfect English 
to our carefully thought out but stumbling phrases 
that he had that day left for his vacation of three 
months. Or maybe it was only three weeks, but 
that being the whole time allotted for our trip, 
it mattered little if he were staying three years. 
Sadly we wended our way back to the hotel, — 
which was another grievance, for we hadn't 

24 



Introducing Bergere 25 

thought " Madame " was very nice to us because, 
contrary to what was to be expected of our nation- 
ality, we hadn't wanted the most expensive rooms 
in the house. We later repented most heartily 
of this particular prejudice, for she proved most 
obliging. Baedeker, that trademark of travelers, 
branding them with their crime on sight, — which 
we soon left in our disgust at his complete igno- 
rance of such a spot as Hede with its little Hotel 
de r £cu, — Baedeker mentioned hotels, cafes, 
tramways — both electric and steam, — post offices 
and American consular agents, cabs by the hour, 
by the course, even by night, but not a word as 
to the possibility of hiring a horse for several 
weeks and the approximate cost thereof — infor- 
mation which surely any competent guide should 
furnish ! The American Consular Agent ! Why 
not? The telephone elicited the answer: the gen- 
tleman was on his vacation, — at Dinard. Vaca- 
tions seemed popular at this season; we wondered 
that the telephone was in operation. Madame 
kindly called Dinard for us, but our friend had 
taken a house without a telephone. We could 
have sat down and howled dismally. And here 
began our repentance concerning the hotel. 
Madame in five minutes called up a riding school 
for us, stated the requirements, received a satis- 
factory reply, made an engagement for us to call, 
even furnished us with a little map showing the 



26 Brittany with Bergere 

location of the Rue de Viarmes — and, meta- 
phorically, we fell on her neck and wept. 

The £,cole de Dressage et d' Equitation, Rue de 
Viarmes, ii, we found without difficulty, and half 
of the firm of Thiriot et Blanchet — which half 
I don't know — in neat stock and other accouter- 
ments becoming a dealer in horse flesh, met us at 
the door and seemed to understand our speech to 
a certain extent. Then he led the way to a stable 
and showing us a nice-looking little brown mare, 
wrote " 250 francs " on a nearby blackboard. I 
raised my eyebrows and stammered something 
about our having to pay for her keep, whereupon 
he plunged into a mathematical dissertation to 
prove that even so, it would be far cheaper than 
railroad fares. Finally he volunteered a reduc- 
tion of twenty-five francs and we left, agreeing to 
the bargain on condition that the horse should go 
well on a trial the next afternoon. Thus did we 
become acquainted with Bergere. Privately she 
was dubbed " Folies Bergeres," though Decima 
suggested that we were probably the Folies. 

The Saturday market was just breaking up and 
the town seemed a little less modern as we sat on 
the terrasse of a small cafe and watched the peas- 
ant women drive by in their high two-wheeled 
carts, their heads covered with the Breton bonnet, 
which in this particular vicinity has a pair of 
strings — or, more accurately, side-whiskers — 



Introducing Berg ere T] 

that end in a broad bow resting in front of the 
chin. The young girl's coifs were merely tiny 
pieces of lace the size of a silver dollar. The 
somberness of perpetual black and the everlasting 
umbrella surprised us, but we soon grew accus- 
tomed to both and understood their " raison 
d'etre," — especially the umbrella ! 



IV 

The Open Road 

MONDAY arrived, ushered in by the dismal 
plashing of what seemed a small but deter- 
mined cloud-burst. During the trial trip of the 
day before, M. Thiriot (or was it M. Blanchet?) 
had insisted on riding behind the little red-wheeled 
dog-cart, probably for the express purpose of 
awing Bergere with his too well known voice. Be 
that as it may, the little horse had shown so re- 
markable speed that we had engaged her on the 
spot and she was due to arrive at two-thirty. But 
our fresh linen had not come and packing was at 
a standstill. And then, of course, in the midst 
of this predicament, Decima's femininity had to 
crop out: she must have a new, appropriate, and 
becoming hat for the trip. It took two hours' 
steady paddling around the crooked streets to ac- 
complish it, but success rewarded our efforts — or 
rather her efforts and my long-suffering patience 
— and, returning to our hotel just in time for 
dejeuner, we found that the laundry was still in 
abeyance. Lunch was over and the rain had 
miraculously stopped, but still no hlanchis sense. 
One-thirty, one-forty-five, two o'clock and she had 

28 



The Open Road 29 

not appeared. Finally, In response to our third 
frantic message, the linen arrived and was thrown 
into the two suitcases, kit-bag, and small satchel 
which, with three kodaks, comprised our equip- 
ment. Then, having paid over to M. Thiriot two 
hundred and twenty-five francs, and having de- 
posited Decima's original hat with Madame for 
safe keeping — Madame wore black so Declma 
felt fairly safe It would not decorate her person 
during our absence — and having tipped the 
femme de chambre, the waiter, the head waiter, 
the two hall porters, the driver of the hotel 'bus, 
the stable boy who was holding Bergere's head, 
and several nondescript individuals who stood 
around expectantly with an air of having accom- 
plished a great deal, we climbed in, saw the lug- 
gage roped on behind and clattered off down the 
street followed by many " good-byes " and " good 
lucks " — the latter probably very skeptical. 

No sooner gone than we made a number of dis- 
coveries, all of which tended to raise In our opin- 
ion the characteristic acumen, if not honesty, of 
our horse dealer. The harness was not the new 
and shiny one which we had used on Sunday, but 
harness which had seen evident hard service. The 
iron footrest — against which I, as driver, was 
entitled to brace my feet to prevent slipping com- 
pletely off the sloping seat, was gone altogether — 
probably with a view to compelling us to buy a 



30 Brittany with Bergere 

new rest under the terms of our contract, which 
covered the loss of everything from the whip to 
the entire outfit of horse, cart, and harness. O 
wily Thiriot ! 

" Oh, well," said Decima, " we'll write and tell 
him that we know what he's done and that we 
think it was horrid, and that will make it all right." 
Which of course ended the matter. 

As to Bergere, we couldn't complain: she was 
a darling and had a fascinating way of wagging 
her little stump of a tail In harmony with her 
pace. True, even in spite of considerable " tap- 
ping " on occasion, she never attained the speed 
which she had developed so easily with half the 
firm of Thiriot et Blanchet aboard. Although I 
am entirely ignorant of the wiles of their nefarious 
trade, I fear she must have been given some sort 
of an equine cocktail before that trial to make her 
so lively. Still, from the very first she proved a 
cheerful, plodding, uncomplaining little mouse, 
and we grew exceedingly fond of her — not that 
she appreciated or reciprocated our affection. I 
call her "mouse" advisedly; she resembled one 
much more nearly than a horse. The term origi- 
nated with Decima — as, indeed, did all ideas on 
the journey; I couldn't think of any and Bergere 
wouldn't. 

In our disgust at the base perfidy of Thiriot et 
Blanchet, we lost our way. At the outset, Hede 



The Open Road 31 

had been our goal — with the vague idea, I be- 
lieve, that we should thus eventually arrive at 
Saint-Malo. But some miles from Rennes, when 
we complacently fancied ourselves half way to 
Hede, we discovered that we were not on the 
route nationale leading to that place, but were on 
quite a different road going in quite a different 
direction to quite a different town — Montauban. 

" What shall we do? " I asked with masculine 
interrogation. 

" Do, Peter? " echoed Decima with feminine 
inconsequence, " why do anything? What differ- 
ence does it make where we spend the night any- 
how? Let's try this little road here," pointing to 
our automobile map and striking what afterward 
proved to be the right one. So off we turned to 
the right by a little lane that puttered aimlessly 
along, just as do the delightful little French rivers, 
now shut in by rows of close growing trees, now 
wandering between golden fields, crimson studded 
with poppies. The peace and quiet of it all stole 
into jaded American souls like magic. All cares 
and troubles seemed to slide from our shoulders 
as in reality the waterproof covering we had 
bought in the morning nearly slipped from the 
backs of the luggage. And then the spell was 
broken. Rounding a corner we found ourselves 
on the Saint-Malo road, headed for Hede, a steam 
tram shrieking and growling in the distance. It 



32 Brittany with Bergere 

did not bother us to any great degree — indeed 
this was the only time that we actually saw one 
of the little trains. But the sense of civilization 
from the crossing of our path by car tracks was 
an irritant from which we never could quite 
escape : the thing — or its counterpart — was 
ubiquitous and kept turning up unexpectedly in a 
disconcerting manner. 

A few kilometers beyond Montgermont we felt 
obliged to stop and photograph with two separate 
kodaks a delightful old gate which opened direct 
from the highway into a chicken covered barn- 
yard. The beaming owner declared that it was 
from three to four hundred years old — which I 
can well believe — that " but yes, many Anglais 
had photographed it, that there had even been 
made post-cards of it, and wouldn't we please give 
him one of ours?" We promised, — promises 
are easily made, — but completely forgot to ask 
the gentleman's name; all we knew was that his 
house was labeled " Registre Bureau " and that 
the tramway station — that infernal tramway 
again ! — across the road was labeled La Brosse- 
La Chapelle. Fortunately our honor was saved 
by neither of the pictures coming out. 

To this inhabitant of the country wc were 
Anglais, and so we remained throughout the next 
three weeks, — usually, I fear, with the mental 
prefix " mad." We didn't bother to correct the 



The Open Road 33 

general misapprehension, for we felt that we 
might as well spare our fellow-countrymen the 
reputation for insanity. The one time we did at- 
tempt to explain that we were not British, our com- 
panion had never heard of America, so we grace- 
fully accepted our foster-nationality. 

On, on past laughing fields and rich, green trees, 
past workmen asleep by the roadside, past staring 
children that smiled and said " bonjour '' and star- 
ing grown-ups that didn't smile and didn't say 
" bonjour/' past a loathsome beggar who tried to 
talk to us toothlessly and rained down thanks and 
blessings on us for our two sous, on, on past the 
little lanes that wound off so temptingly in every 
direction, past the gleaming black-and-white pies, 
the poppies, the countless roadside flowers of every 
description, and then a spire in the distance an- 
nounced Hede. 



V 
Hide 

OUR preconceived notions, based on memo- 
ries of Rennes, were of an up-to-date, com- 
mercial and quite uninteresting town, with street 
cars and people that turned and stared. And 
when, on asking an old gentleman if there were an 
inn there, he informed us with a polite but sur- 
prised raising of the eyebrows that there were 
three hotels, our fears were redoubled. Our de- 
light therefore was extreme when, trotting over 
the cobblestones of a narrow lane, we found our- 
selves in a peaceful, deserted square, at the door 
of a tiny old house designated by a tin sign as the 
Hotel de I'ficu. I dislike making inquiries in 
French, so I remain In my seat, ostensibly to hold 
our prancing steed in check while Decima de- 
scends in search of someone. The first door led 
into a tobacco shop and comptoir, containing a 
number of men busily drinking, but with no one 
in charge; the second opened into a queer little 
dining-room, — and Decima beat a hurried re- 
treat. While she stood in the road, nonplused, 
and looked up at me, equally at a loss, a rosy- 
cheeked girl ran out. Smilingly she assured us 

34 




Mam'selle at Hede. 



Hide 37 

that we could have dinner and rooms for the night, 
though the house scarcely looked large enough to 
possess two chambres. Then a man emerged and 
led Bergcre away. 

The quaintness, the simplicity of those rooms! 
— mine especially, tucked under the eaves and 
reached by two flights of winding, worn stairs. 
A high bed — immaculately clean and covered 
with an enormous, enveloping canopy — a rough 
washstand, a table and one chair were all the 
furniture which each could boast — or hold, for 
that matter. And the nondescript but delightful 
room which acted as " lobby," tobacco-shop and 
comptoir with its low, heavily raftered ceiling, and 
the little stools around the sticky tables! In the 
days of the Duchesse Anne, whose house it was, 
the whole lower floor had been one great hall; but 
modern partitions made a small dining-room and 
kitchen besides the comptoir. Later, on the way 
out to the stable, we saw the huge fire-place, now 
deserted for a more convenient stove. 

Then, as the sun dropped slowly to the west 
and the silent shadows began to steal from their 
cool hiding places, we crossed the little square 
and in three minutes found ourselves on the crest 
of a grassy hill, surrounded with the ruined walls 
of a mediaeval castle. Sheep browsed in a busi- 
ness-like manner here and there, but all the rest of 
the everyday, matter-of-fact, eating-and-drlnking 



38 Brittany with Berg ere 

world seemed to have slipped mysteriously away, 
leaving us alone with the Spirit of the Past to con- 
jure up pictures of Henry II and his sturdy Eng- 
lishmen storming this Breton stronghold. Out 
through one of the gaps in the crumbling walls — 
possibly made in that very year 11 68 — far at 
our feet spread a wonderful valley interlaced with 
the slender, silver ribbons of a dozen different 
roads. And to think it made no difference which 
we should take on the morrow! Surely there is 
a bit of the nomad in most of us. For which let 
us be thankful. 

A distant bell chimed seven and we turned re- 
gretfully and wound our way through walled lanes 
to the inn — and dinner. And what a dinner ! 
Truly one of the most excellent and welcome re- 
pasts I have ever eaten. Epicures may say that 
Brittany is not noted for its cooking; doubtless 
they know. All / know is that alone and at peace 
in the little dining-room, with the smiling, rosy- 
cheeked girl to wait on us, and a simple but de- 
licious dinner, our souls — and our appetites — 
were content. Soup — " la bonne soupe au 
chou " — omelet, lamb and potatoes, and fruit, 
with unlimited ifin ordinaire, and excellent cider 
to boot — what more could two hungry, healthy 
trekkers want? And to think that Baedeker 
doesn't even mention Hede in the index ! 

pinner over, we went into the comptoir, and I 



Hede 39 

smoked while Decima wrote and probably half the 
male inhabitants of the village came in for coffee 
or wine or to play cards by the light of one smoky 
swinging lamp. One of the said inhabitants tried 
to kiss the pretty little red-cheeked girl and got 
his ears boxed for his pains. Then we went out 
to say good-night to Bergere, passing through the 
court with its tower which we climbed the next 
morning. She seemed quite content — not that 
we would have known had she been starving — so 
we picked our way back over the rough stone flag- 
ging to the house and mounted, each with a candle, 
to our nooks under the eaves. 

Awakened by the vociferous creaking of the 
village pump, I dismounted from my dangerously 
high bed to find the sky a leaden gray, veiled by the 
stream of rain that rolled down from the steep 
roof. The busy little town seemed unmindful of 
the weather. In the middle of the square was the 
rosy-cheeked girl pumping the day's water supply 
for the house — though it seemed an unnecessary 
labor, considering the bucketfuls which the heav- 
ens so gratuitously sent. Silent men, their black 
blouses drenched with rain, drove by in cumber- 
some high-wheeled carts; women bearing cotton 
umbrellas clattered their sabots over the cobbled 
streets. Breakfast finished, the rain had ceased 
and we sallied forth through the comptoir, packed 
with farmers drinking hard cider out of teacups, 



40 Brittany with Berg ere 

to find the cause of so much activity. We found 
it: in what was once the forecourt of the castle 
a pig market was already in process of disband- 
ment. Instead of sheltering the dark deeds of 
proud lords and mighty men-at-arms, the chateau 
must need content itself with frowning on so pro- 
saic an event as the sale of a few swine! Such 
is the mutability of human affairs. 

But its plebeian surroundings could not change 
the wealth of romance in the calm ruins. Further 
exploration discovered for us a most charming 
view back toward the town which revealed a fact 
we had not noticed on the preceding day — 
namely, that a great part of the village was sus- 
pended on the crest of a hill down whose sides 
sprawled many quaint gardens, resembling a di- 
minutive Babylon. Skirting the fringe of walls, 
we walked to the other side of the square and to 
the church, twelfth century Romanesque with a 
twentieth century spire, two months old. The in- 
terior was a shock to one's sense of structural 
stability: a Gothic roof, new, shiny, scrupulously 
white, with all the outward and visible signs of 
diagonal, transverse and longitudinal ribs, hung 
above our heads without apparent support. The 
town pride which preferred this painful spruceness 
was pardonable; the grotesque incongruity of in- 
terior and exterior, though financially surprising, 
was conceivable. But how in the name of gods 




A peculiarly unbeautiful 
infant. 



Hede 43 

and architects was the feat physically possible? 
Long we puzzled over the enigma without finding 
a solution. Then suddenly I had an inspiration. 
Looking furtively about, I retired to one end of 
the empty church and stood on a pew. Poking 
the low vaulted roof with my cane, there was an 
ominous crunching sound, and a shower of plaster 
descended. We escaped, guilty but triumphant; 
the riddle, both financial and architectural, had 
been solved ! However, we did not deem it wise 
to linger in order to confess our discovery to the 
priest, but walked briskly back to the inn and com- 
manded the horse. While Bergere was being har- 
nessed, the baby of the household was waked to 
have its photograph taken. The fond mother of 
course insisted on changing grimy but character- 
istic garb for festal attire, which spoiled the value 
of the photograph except as a record of a pecu- 
liarly unbeautiful infant. Then with real regret at 
parting, and what this time seemed really sincere 
good wishes, we turned the little horse and clat- 
tered off on the road to Combourg. Why Com- 
bourg, we didn't exactly know; except that we had 
to go somewhere, and the rosy-cheeked girl had 
said there was an interesting chateau there. 
Traveling " from hand to mouth," so to speak, 
added a gypsy flavor to our journey which made 
for far greater charm than a carefully followed 
itinerary. 



VI 

The First Menhir 

COMBOURG, — how picturesque the great 
towers of the Chateau Chateaubriand domi- 
nating the surrounding country ! We saw it first 
in the distance from the top of a long hill, framed 
between rows of receding trees, impressive in its 
silent dignity, haughty in its feudalism. Then, 
as we descended the hill and could distinguish the 
village nestling secure and confiding at its feet, it 
seemed to lose its asperity and take on a paternal 
quality mingled with the gentleness of age, like 
some grand old man grown tender through the 
experience of a long life of struggle. Clinging to 
its base was the " Hotel du Chateau et des 
Voyageurs, Aristide Allix, Proprietaire." The 
name seemed applicable, the owner sounded con- 
scientious, the hour of noon was appropriate. 
We stopped for lunch. If the great Aristides 
himself had been an inn-keeper, his sense of jus- 
tice could not have furnished a more delicious re- 
past. It was four years since I had tasted the 
rillettes for which Touraine should be justly im- 
mortal if for nothing else, and here was the coun- 
terpart of that delightful potted meat. The years 

44 



The First Menhir 45 

of memory were not in vain; they had taught me 
wisdom and the sad fact that dishes are not always 
passed a second time. So my first portion was, I 
fear, unspeakably large. My hopes were amply 
justified. What seemed an enormity of appetite 
to Decima was, fortunately, not regarded as a 
breach of etiquette by the demoiselle who served 
us, accustomed as she was to the astounding table 
manners of the French commis voyageur. So 
when occasion offered, I brazenly ventured to take 
a second helping and asked if these were not the 
famous rillettes de Tours. She stared in surprise 
and shrugged her Gallic shoulders. " But no, 
M'sieu," she said in an injured tone, " they are 
the rillettes de Comhourg! " 

Luncheon achieved, we sat down at one of the 
two little iron tables which, with a faded awning, 
adorned the terrasse of the cstabhshment. While 
Decima wrote the inevitable postcard I smoked 
and asked questions. The chateau was " very an- 
cient and ' tres, tres interessant ' and, name of a 
name, it is necessary absolutely that Monsieur 
and Madame see the skeleton of the cat which was 
really a count of Combourg who haunted the 
castle." But when we came down to actual facts, 
it seemed that the chateau was open only on 
Wednesdays, and this was not a Wednesday. 
The cook, however, who overheard the conversa- 
tion, emerged from her sacred precinct to say that 



46 Brittany with Bergere 

the concierge had married the uncle of her hus- 
band and that we should have no trouble if we es- 
sayed the matter properly. A word to the wise 
for once sufficed. So we shouldered our kodaks 
and followed the winding street up to the gate- 
keeper's lodge. 

The concierge may have been the aunt by mar- 
riage of a very capable and pleasant mistress of 
the culinary art, but she scarcely seemed to live up 
to her relationship-in-law ; in fact she was quite 
unwilling to oblige. However, we attempted the 
implied remedy — with success; she being no less 
hardened than the average member of her calling 
to the monstrous sin of bribery. The iron gates 
swung open and we entered the chateau grounds. 

Full of charm was this park, with its paths cut 
through cool sward bordered by rustling boskets 
of mighty trees. In its midst rose the gray walls 
of the castle, silent, imposing, eloquent of another 
age. Our guide said little until we had entered 
the ground floor of the building, with its freshened 
appearance bespeaking modern occupancy. Then 
she burst into a perfect torrent of incomprehensi- 
ble, toothless patois. It was the monologue de- 
livered on such occasions, as familiar to the good 
soul as a priest's Aves, but to the uninitiated, 
utterly unintelligible and ludicrously funny in the 
sing-song delivery. The old lady seemed very ill 
at ease, and whisked us from one room to another 



The First Menhir 47 

until we had scarcely a breath left In our bodies, 
from the sheer exhaustion of climbing winding 
stone stairs and scurrying along the deserted corri- 
dors. Still we saw it all, this early home of Cha- 
teaubriand, dating in its oldest part from the 
twelfth century, where he spent the long, silent 
evenings he has so vividly described. Just as we 
reached the door, an ill favored youth came hastily 
up and whispered a message to the old dame. 
Whereupon a look of terror overspread her 
wrinkled face and she scuttled off without even 
pausing for a pour-boire, delivering a mumbled 
order over her shoulder to the aforesaid youth. 
That worthy told us to follow him and led the 
way rapidly through the front door towards a 
different gate from that of our entry, bidding us 
keep under cover of a gentle slope. Already the 
old woman was hurrying as fast as her feet could 
take her towards the main entrance. In answer to 
repeated questions, the youth grudgingly informed 
us that M. le Comte had returned unexpectedly 
from Paris and was already at the gate and that 
if he had found us in the grounds he would have 
been highly angry. " So you had better dispatch 
yourselves," he added sourly in the idiom, as he 
banged the gate behind us. We returned to the 
hostelry of M. Allix, avoided the polite cook and 
started off for nowhere in particular. 

Bergere was unhappy; her apology for a tail 



48 Brittany with Bergere 

did not wag with its accustomed jauntiness. I am 
not naturally of a cruel nature, still I would have 
tried the rod. But the gentle taps which were all 
that Decima would allow would have roused scorn 
in a wayward kitten. So I was obliged to decide 
something was wrong with the adjustment of the 
charrette. We came to a halt, and while Decima 
fed the absurd scrap of a horse with grass and 
soothed her with baby-talk, I toiled in the blazing 
sun to shift the seat and lighten the weight on 
Bergere's back. Still no visible change in the 
pony's mien; she crawled along as if we had been 
maltreating her for weeks. 

" Perhaps we've got it too far back and it's 
interfering with her digestive apparatus," sug- 
gested Decima. 

Another shift: no result. 

" Well," said Decima in an authoritative tone, 
" we'll simply have to stop at the next town and 
let the horse go to bed." 

I dutifully looked up the next town on the map. 

" It's called Bazouges-la-Perouse," I said; " we 
really can't spend the night in a place called 
Bazouges." 

My objection was overruled, and a few minutes 
later I stopped in the one narrow street of Ba- 
zouges-la-Perouse and asked this time for " the 
hotel." " Here it is," answered an exceptionally 
unkempt man. " I am the proprietaire; what will 



The First Menhir 49 

Monsieur and Madame have? " 

Looking up we discovered a very unattractive 
inn; could we have two rooms for the night? 
The hotelier answered in great surprise that he 
had one room and in yet greater astonishment at 
such a question that there was only one bed in it. 
So I thanked him and drove off, leaving him gap- 
ing after us and explaining the " mad English " 
to his friends and acquaintances. 

Antrain, which Decima insisted must be a mis- 
nomer for '^ en voiture," was but nine kilometers 
further on, but Bergere was too depressed to make 
rapid progress. A short distance out of Bazouges 
we saw our first menhir, — one of those giant 
monolithic monuments of uncertain origin which 
are so striking a feature of parts of Brittany. It 
would seem that these monuments were first raised 
by the prehistoric peoples preceding the Celts; but 
many date from Gallic, even Roman times. This 
was in no way an unusual specimen, standing 
merely some ten feet high by the roadside, — it 
would probably be more accurate to say that the 
road had originally gone out of its way to pass 
the megalith — but to our unaccustomed eyes, it 
was a treasure, a discovery of the most amazing 
importance. The relentless grip of the church 
had puts its mark even on so pagan an idol; 
perched on the top was a small stone cross ; prob- 
ably the work of an early saint, intended to banish 



^O Brittany with Bergere 

the evil influence of the accursed stone, or, what 
is even more Hkely, to adapt the relic to his own 
peculiar form of worship. Yet one might well be- 
lieve in either saints or devils, to see a great rock 
casually planted in this manner where it would be 
hard to find a stone the size of one's head. Six 
little boys returning from school with six little 
umbrellas under their arms seemed suddenly 
stricken dumb when asked how it happened to be 
there. A seventh, when taunted with the old 
chestnut that the cat had stolen his tongue, plucked 
up courage sufficient to tell us that his name was 
Joseph Leroux and that he was aged six years and 
three months; but as to the menhir, he seemed in 
amazing ignorance, which only tended to increase 
our self-complacency at the discovery we had 
made. 

Whether or not Bergere has archaeological 
tastes, I am unable to say; maybe she was merely 
superstitious, knew of the approaching menhir and 
was relieved to have done with it. In any event 
she was greatly cheered when she left it outlined 
against the glow of the afternoon sun, and trotted 
quite happily on. And how glad we were that 
lack of hotel accommodation had dissuaded us 
from Bazouges, as we rumbled over the cobbled, 
winding streets of Antrain — another town 
omitted by Baedeker! How quaint the old 
houses, how different the frank curiosity of these 




Joseph Leroux. 



The First Menhir 53 

simple villagers from the boorish staring we re- 
ceived at Rennes ! And the Grand' Maison 
Bos-her, though not so ancient as the little inn at 
Hede, was even more charming than the Hotel 
de Fficu — built round a stone court, its walls 
covered with climbing roses. 

A sympathetic stableman listened to my stam- 
mered recital of Bergere's woes with the courtesy 
and apparent comprehension which only the 
French can show a harassed foreigner. He 
seemed to take a real interest in the little horse — 
as, indeed, did all with whom she came in contact 
— and finally announced he would give her a bath 
with savon noir. As this was said with an air 
which implied that of course I knew black soap 
was the very finest treatment which could be ap- 
plied for just this particular ailment, I nodded 
wisely, murmured " bien," and settled myself to 
watch the proceedings in the court-yard of the 
Grand' Maison. Having seen her carefully 
rubbed and put to bed, we strolled over to the 
old church. It was too dim to see much more 
than that the interior had been quite inartistically 
remodeled. So we wandered back by the ivy- 
grown prison, long since disused, and played 
" Canfield " after dinner by the light of a solitary 
lamp until the outrageously late hour of nine- 
thirty and then — retired. 



VII 

Le Mont Saint-Michel 

THE busy country day was already well ad- 
vanced when I woke from the dreamless 
sleep to which the Breton air and a clear conscience 
are so conducive. For a moment I lay still, lulled 
by the fragrance of roses framing the window. 
Then, suddenly conscious of many things yet to 
be seen in this delightful Brittany, I tumbled to 
my feet and beat frantically on the wall until a 
sleepy voice assured me that Declma shared my 
sentiments. Details we discussed at our " little 
breakfast " of bread hacked from an enormous, 
pachydermatous loaf, with glistening butter, 
washed down by a bowl of coffee. The Wander- 
lust was on us; we had seen all of importance in 
Antrain : we must press on to new discoveries even 
more important than the menhir of yesterday. 
Where we should go mattered little, but Pontor- 
son seemed the natural place, being on the direct 
route to that most historic site in all Bretagne — 
Le Mont Saint-Michel. 

Decisions are easily made when one has only 
to consult the wishes of a sister and a small French 
Jiorse. Yet this one had like to bring us into a deal 

54 



Le Mont Saint-Michel 55 

of trouble. As we entered the town some two 
hours later, the inevitable pig-market was in ses- 
sion, and the streets were thronged with pig-laden 
and pig-driving peasants. The scene was full of 
fascination and, as Bergere was crawling at the 
snail's pace she loved so well, we paid little heed 
to the course, trusting her to look out for herself. 
To the mere man who attempts to calculate what 
the feminine mind will or will not do is sure con- 
fusion. We were engrossed in listening to the 
heart-rending squeals which emerged from a po- 
tato-sack on the back of a purchaser, when an 
absent-minded paysanne, with stooping shoulders 
and silvered hair beneath the neat cap, walked di- 
rectly in front of Bergere. A masculine horse 
would have stopped, or at least swerved to let the 
lady pass. Not so Bergere. We were startled 
by a slight jolt as her soft nose came suddenly in 
contact with the old woman's ear. A thrill of 
horror passed through me. Had she chosen, it 
might have been a " bad quarter of an hour " for 
the mad English who drove so abominably. But 
here again my analysis of the feminine mind was 
wrong; she merely clapped her hand to her head 
and scurried off, murmuring " Mon Di'u, mon 
Di'u ! " without so much as a glance at us. 

The Hotel de I'Ouest seemed far too civilized 
with its electric light, but we later found a candle 
more satisfactory for reading. Our companions 



^6 Brittany with Bergere 

at luncheon were, however, too barbaric for 
words ; never have I listened to sounds so stertor- 
ous during the consumption of food by man or 
beast, — an East Side tough would have been a 
Chesterfield by comparison. Yet these same 
drummers, if asked a question, would have an- 
swered with formal politeness of which most 
Americans would have been incapable. Manners 
are a matter of geography, I suppose, as much as 
language and the wearing of beards. 

Mont Saint-Michel, we were told, was no place 
to take a horse. Luncheon over, we boarded the 
steam tram, leaving Bergere to her fragrant hay. 
The diminutive train rattled off through the coun- 
try, suddenly grown flat, and soon the smell of 
the sea filled the air. A bend in the tracks and 
there loomed in the distance the rock, fortress- 
girt, and crowned with the thirteenth century 
abbey, topped by the dwindling church spire — 
a giant menhir reared above the monotonous 
Greve. Then we slid onto the dike which joins 
the mainland to the town, perched as Le Mont is 
half a mile out on the sands. A few minutes later, 
the train disgorged us — almost the only foreign- 
ers — at the base of the cragged promontory. A 
great avalanche of guides, commissionaires , and 
hotel agents descended upon us. Once, however, 
we had fought and glared our way through their 
ranks to the main gate of the fortifications, the 




A pig in a poke. 



Le Mont Saint-Michel 59 

host seemed to respect our temerity and we were, 
comparatively speaking, unmolested. Doubtless 
this turbulent and not over-clean crowd earn a re- 
spectable living from the unwary, but why they are 
permitted to afflict the intelligent and unobtrusive 
traveler and to desecrate the charm of so historic 
a spot, passes the bounds of my comprehension. 
However, I am not the French Government. 

Charming Mont Saint-Michel assuredly is. 
Far abler writers have told of it; and its appear- 
ance and history need here no word. To attempt 
a description of its charm, its uniqueness, its mag- 
nificent setting, would be futile; to me they are 
indescribable. Our formal tour through the 
monastery with half a hundred French sight-seers 
was spoiled by a dozen brats who seemed to think 
that we were the sights they had come to see. 
They blocked our way and, with uncouth staring, 
got under our very feet. Hints that their atten- 
tions were unpleasant had no more effect than the 
roars of a caged lion. But having accomplished 
our duty and soothed our consciences as tourists 
with the thought that we had seen all that should 
be seen, we sneaked off really to enjoy Mont 
Saint-Michel. An hour or more we wandered 
over the fortifications, looking now at the busy, 
crooked, almost perpendicular streets of the little 
town within, now over the wet gray sables to the 
gray water without — for the tide recedes some 



6o Brittany with Bergere 

seven miles from this Bay of Saint-Michel. We 
stopped for rest and refreshment at one of the 
many cafes, the terrasses of which line the walls 
with yellow iron tables and chairs. For sight- 
seeing is fatiguing and to prolong it uncomfortably 
is to spoil the entire day with weariness. Decima 
chose tea which, being intended for foreigners, 
was execrable; my bock was more successful. 
Mere Poulard's " famous omelets " we suspected 
were now in the hands of a corporation and to be 
avoided. Then as the sun swung lower and the 
chill of evening began to drift in from the sea, we 
wound our way down hill and over sticky sands to 
the train. And thence back to Pontorson. 

That evening there was music by a handful of 
buglers attached to a division of soldiers in tem- 
porary garrison in the town. As music it struck 
me as rather limited but it gave enormous pleasure 
to the inhabitants. Beginning at one end of the 
main street, the band would march to the other, 
playing vociferously a monotonous fanfare, while 
the entire population followed at its heels to ap- 
plaud at the finish. A rest followed, the mu- 
sicians all lighting cigarettes and conversing indo- 
lently with the bystanders. Then followed a 
second tune, as monotonous as the first, with puffs 
of smoke between blows on the bugles. Again 
the whole procession would retire to the other end 
of the street and the performance would be re- 



Le Mont Saint-Michel 6i 

peated, using the same two tunes. The stableman 
said something about a march to Hede, but after 
following the crowd over the same route five times, 
we gave up all hope and went to bed. 

The church we visited in the morning while 
Bergere was being clad for the day's march. The 
exterior was Romanesque, simple but quaint, with 
stumpy bell-turrets flanking the f agade. The tym- 
panum of the south portal was rudely carved with 
grotesque figures, too worn to be recognizable, 
but resembling a bird and a man. The interior 
itself was uninterestingly modernized. But under 
a window on the north side of the church was a 
bas-relief of the Ascension, apparently taken from 
the north tympanum, where was only a plain slab 
of stone; and to one side of the altar was a stone 
reredos. The figures were so mutilated — all 
had been beheaded — that we could recognize 
only two scenes of the twenty plaques, the central 
" Crucifixion " and the " Last Supper." So poor 
was the preservation that any attempt to date the 
work was precarious. But it was probably of the 
Renaissance. The south portal was, however, un- 
doubtedly executed by Romanesque sculptors. 

The drive from Pontorson towards Dol was 
magnificent in scenery but slow as to speed. Her 
" ecorchures legeres " — as M. Thiriot (or was it 
M. Blanchet?) had called two wounds on her 
flanks, — seemed to bother Bergere, and she inter- 



62 Brittany with Berg ere 

fered somewhat. One o'clock found us still four 
or five kilometers from our destination. So with 
trepidation, but immense curiosity, we stopped in 
the hamlet of Baguer-Pican at our first roadside 
auherge, designated as an inn by the conventional 
bunch of mistletoe over the door and a rambling 
sign, " Cafe Lambert." What a delightful name, 
Baguer-Pican! And to think that, in the United 
States, it would probably have been Jonestown or 
Smithvillel The voice which answered our 
shouted request for food sounded rather gruff as it 
replied that there were only eggs to be had. But 
what a cheerful reception from the old lady, apple- 
cheeked and smiling, when we entered ! She was 
dressed in rusty black and her head was neatly 
covered with a colored handkerchief — to keep 
her cap fresh, she apologized. A drunken old 
fellow was seated in the estaminet, so she ushered 
us into the family living- and bed-room and went 
to prepare our luncheon. At last we were in a 
real Breton house, old but scrupulously clean, 
down to its hard-packed earthen floor. The huge 
clock, three portly beds with spotless linen, stiff 
canopies and enormous feather beds, the pig- 
shaped broche, in which meat could be cooked on 
a spit, the sacred gim-cracks, — everything, in) 
fact, was full of charm, and we hugged ourselves 
in glee and in private. 

Then the door opened and the girl-of-all-work. 




La fille de Mere Lambert. 



Le Mont Saint-Michel 65 

flushed from the fire and laughing happily, brought 
in the lunch. They must have loved us at first 
sight, for beside the promised omelet, there were 
soup, fresh sausage, and peas to be eaten with 
great pewter spoons, accompanied by hard-crusted 
bread and slices from a dome of golden butter. 
Simple, to be sure, but all of the freshest and best, 
and given as generously as though we were hon- 
ored guests. Brittany is one of the few places 
in a sordid world where people seem to take real 
pleasure in service graciously performed, in giving 
of their best and in seeing this best appreciated. 
Peas were followed by the sensible French des- 
sert of fresh fruit; but the good old soul, for our 
special delectation, had dug out of Heaven only 
knows where a dish of motheaten cakes. To re- 
fuse them would have been ungracious, but we 
welcomed the coffee afterwards. To this latter, 
the young girl who waited on us and acted as ad- 
visor on Breton etiquette — 'twas she who had ex- 
plained that the bread was to be eaten with the 
peas — insisted that we add " fine " (meaning, of 
course, in the vernacular, fine champagne) . 
Then, to delight my masculine taste, she produced 
a bottle of treacly curagoa, which I was obliged 
still further to add to the coffee. All of which 
was laid on a solid foundation of excellent cider, — 
for we had had no sip of water since leaving 
Rennes, and Brittany is a thirsty country ! 



66 Brittany with Bergere 

After dinner we took the family's photograph, 
in which, at Mere Lambert's whispered request, 
the farmer and his wife were included — "So 
faithful they've been, M'sieu, for twenty years, 
and it would give them such pleasure." 

Happiness is seldom long separated from pain; 
pleasure goes hand in hand with pathos. The 
old lady was showing us her vegetable garden 
with the pride of ownership ; contentment was writ- 
ten on her simple face, until I told her we would 
send her the photographs if they came out well. 
She gave a hurried, scared look which at the time 
I did not understand. Then she answered In a 
strained voice that " we were all that there Is of 
kind," and the subject dropped. The smile van- 
ished from her lips and she spoke In monosyllables. 
Finally, at the end of a noticeable pause, she asked 
with averted face, " Do they cost very much, the 
photographs?" Then we knew, and when we 
explained that they were gifts she beamed once 
more. The poor old woman had thought us ped- 
dlers, and her fear of a few centimes' expense was 
but the dread of the very poor of useless outlay. 
It was a lesson never to be forgotten. 

One reads in books of such expressions as 
" Dame " and " sacre nom de Dieu," but to me at 
least they had always sounded artificial. Yet 
here was this Innocent old woman punctuating 
every sentence with the name of Our Lady and 




Do they cost very much, 
the photographs? 



Le Mont Saint-Michel 69 

using oaths which, in English, would have crisped 
even my indifferent hair with horror. Again a 
matter of geography. 

On arriving at Dol we asked a cavalry officer as 
to hotels and he suggested Au Buffet de la Gare. 
This sounded prosaic, so we relied on our own 
initiative — later regretted — and engaged rooms 
at the Hotel Grand' Maison. No sooner had we 
entered than a shower fell, but as in half an hour 
the sky was smiling as if nothing had happened, 
we went in search of the great Menhir du Champ- 
Dolent, which lies about a mile out of the town. 
When nearby, we asked directions of a woman 
pushing a cart of cherries. The information she 
gave gladly, and also a handful of her fruit and 
a detailed account of an automobile accident that 
had occurred on the very spot where we were 
standing, with the dramatic climax that one of the 
injured had died in her arms. The little girl 
helping to push the cart offered to guide us; I 
suppose we looked harmless, for the mother con- 
sented and departed on her way to Dol. Ob- 
livious of all property rights, the child led us 
through the ripe wheat, relating the while at 
lightning speed how the stone had been dropped 
by the devil, who got too old to carry it — or 
maybe It was the stone which got too old to be 
carried; these French pronouns are so confusing 
— and explaining, too, that she had on her old 



70 Brittany with Bergere 

shoes because she had to climb the cherry-tree, 
adding that she was eleven years old and had a 
month's vacation from school, and why did 
Madame wear such a funny hat? 

If the other menhir had been interesting, this 
was amazing. Thirty feet high it stood, with a 
circumference nearly as great, and it is asserted 
that it extends over twenty feet into the ground. 
The presence of this vast stone cigar in the midst 
of a bowlderless region was inexplicable; I would 
even have been satisfied with Marie's explanation 
— could I have understood it. The wooden cruci- 
fix which crowned it in all the photographs was 
gone, leaving the monolith in its original, druidical 
appearance, except for the golden fields which 
surrounded its drab base. 

The same band we had heard at Pontorson — 
or its twin-brother — appeared on our return to 
Dol, and with it a considerable battery of blue- 
clad artillery. Horses were being shod all over 
the sidewalks, and the petits soldats seemed to 
swarm from every house. Decima offered the 
practical suggestion that they were probably on 
the way to the maneuvers of the Fete Nationale. 
As this reminded me that the present day was the 
" glorious Fourth," I immediately haled her to a 
cafe for a " safe and sane " celebration and a silent 
toast to our flag. So much for our maneuvers. 

The Grand' Maison was not a success. On 



Le Mont Saint-Michel 71 

estampe les gens la, for they charged us first class 
prices for second class rooms and third class food. 
I regretted our contempt of the cavalryman's ad- 
vice. Madame was civilly impertinent and ob- 
viously unwashed. Further, a young drummer 
who spoke some English — the first specimen since 
we left Paris, and mightily welcome it was, for 
all its cockney accent and its "Oh, I zay! ", 
" Oh, vera nize, awvully pleazant," — insisted 
after dinner on sketching out the rest of our trip, 
giving me the names of commercial hotels where 
we could be very comfortable if we came de sa 
part. Bogrand was his name, and he would have 
killed our little horse with the day's marches of 
forty or fifty miles coolly mapped out for us. 
And, as might be expected, his idea of an Inter- 
esting place was a modern summer resort with 
casino and plage. Bed-time finally brought relief. 
The town was quite old in parts, with mediaeval 
maisons a porche; and the cathedral, Gothic, with 
sculptured portico of Saint e Magloire, would have 
charmed us had it been in Hede or Antrain or 
even Baguer-Pican. But the thought of the un- 
kempt, shifty-eyed woman at the hotel hardened 
our hearts against magic of the past, and we drove 
away without regret, after a walk round the old 
ramparts. To such an extent does one's bodily 
comfort interfere with one's aesthetic appreciation ! 



VIII 
The Gray Sea and a Calm Stream 

THERE are two roads from Dol to Saint- 
Malo; one directly to the northwest, the 
other, the route nationale, strikes northward 
through the Marais de Dol to the Channel and 
then skirts the Baie de Cancale for a matter of six 
or eight miles. We chose the more circuitous, 
and soon the smell of the sea filled our nostrils 
once more. The stiff sea breeze whipping at 
Bergere's mane made a lap-robe very welcome as 
we turned and drove quietly within a few rods of 
the damp sands that reached out to the low tide. 
Mile after mile stretched the unbroken sables, 
only a distant murmuring betraying the presence 
of the " far-resounding sea " itself. At intervals 
along the roadside, white-armed windmills moved 
silently. And here and there fishers' hamlets 
crowded close to the smooth road. 

At one of these villages, St. Benoit des Ondes, 
we stopped for luncheon; Decima could not resist 
the temptation of the name. The Cafe des Voy- 
ageurs was only across the street from high water 
mark; but when we arrived, the sea was already 
two miles out and still rapidly receding! It was 

72 



The Gray Sea and a Calm Stream 73 

an unpretentious establishment, sandwiched be- 
tween a butcher's and a baker's, and boasted no 
loge a cheval; so Bergere was tied to a ring in the 
wall, and a deaf old man brought her a feeding 
trough, In which all the chickens of the vicinity 
promptly roosted. We, also, had lunch on the 
sidewalk, and the tablecloth, likewise, had nearly 
to be tied to the wall to keep it from blowing 
away. After the meal, in hopes of getting a 
photograph of the fishermen at work, we walked 
out to sea until the little inn was almost lost to 
sight and Bergere was merely a brown speck In 
the hazy distance. But nary fisher did we see, 
nor anything that resembled an ocean, and we 
turned back in disgust, our boots covered with wet 
clay. 

As we stood before the door of the cafe chat- 
ting with our bonneted hostess, there was the 
guttural blast of an automobile; and a moment 
later who should glide by over the perfect French 
road but The Most Charming Man in the World ! 
He gave a casual glance in our direction, but no 
sign of recognition crossed his face. I can 
scarcely blame him : stylish we certainly were not. 
Decima was clad In homespun, with the little white 
hat that Marie had thought so funny pulled down 
about her ears; I In Scotch tweed, innocent of 
pressing since we left Paris, and, being my one 
suit, destined not to be pressed until our return to 



74 Brittany with Bergere 

trunks in the capital. A disreputable felt hat 
clung tenaciously to my head, and a budding mus- 
tache was at its most unattractive stage. Both of 
us were covered with dust accumulated since morn- 
ing, and our sunburnt skin was peeling from crim- 
son noses. No, there was no feeling of bitterness 
in our hearts that he should fail to recognize us; 
only a great pity for him and for all other travelers 
who can — and consequently do — travel by 
motor and miss the simple joy of the open road, 
the association with the people, the quiet content- 
ment of Hede or Antrain — or St. Benoit des 
Ondes. As for us, we reveled in our simplicity; 
to hire a horse, to provide for that same horse; 
to house ourselves comfortably and sleep again 
the sleep of childhood; to live on the fat of the 
fair land — to do this, and at the same time to see 
and touch intimately the life of a foreign country, 
all at an expense of fifteen francs a day — who 
would not glory in it? And whenever we had to 
pay more than a franc and a half for the best 
room in the house, such a hotel merited displeas- 
ure as unwarrantedly raising the daily cost of liv- 
ing — and we would seek elsewhere. And the 
*' elsewhere " usually served better food more 
agreeably than the more pretentious hostelry. 
Nor was the least blessing of smaller inns the re- 
lief from the worry and annoyance of tipping half 
a dozen worthless domestics at the end of a brief 



The Gray Sea and a Calm Stream 75 

stay. Yet this rule and Its average we deemed it 
safer to waive in larger towns — and even so we 
often regretted it. 

Bergere looked enormously fat after dinner — 
and small wonder, seeing that they always gave 
her the same rations as their draught-horses; but 
she seemed very happy and marched very well to 
Saint-Malo, a town with little attraction for us. 
Probably we were wrong, for our guide book said 
it was " una des villas las plus frequanteas da la 
France." But this was the very reason we did 
not like it; for a place where " accourant en ete 
una foula de baigneurs at da touristas " was not 
exactly what we were in search of, M. Bogrand to 
the contrary. The ramparts were of course cap- 
tivating, with a view over the water, now turned 
opalescent in the rays of an afternoon sun. The 
cathedral, too, was an interesting mixture of 
styles, the nave looking as though formed of two 
churches placed end to end. The oldest portions 
were twelfth century Romanesque, but the greater 
part was flamboyant Gothic. 

True to the rule's exception already mentioned, 
we felt obliged to go to a large hotel in this 
metropolis of twelve thousand inhabitants. (I 
may admit, also, that the thought of a hot bath 
was irresistible.) It was the Hotel de I'Univers, 
new and shiny, and had it been in fact what it 
claimed to be in name, we could not have felt more 



76 Brittany with Bergere 

out of place in our travel-stained clothing under 
the supercilious gaze of the female at the office 
and her supercilious satellites. We slunk away 
to a little cafe for dinner, and from a corner 
watched the " foule de touristes " pass and repass 
like the colors in a kaleidoscope. I had never 
expected to rejoice in Americans, as such, in a 
foreign country; but after a week of nothing but 
French we beamed on two fellow-countrymen 
passing in the street, and strained our ears to 
hear some words of English — if only American 
English I 

At Saint-Malo I learned that environment in- 
fluences another matter beside etiquette and the 
relative profanity of certain words — that is to 
say, curiosity. I could hardly have conceived a 
more sober, unassuming attire than ours; dusty 
we may have looked, but dirt is international. 
Yet we were stared at as though we were ptero- 
dactyls. But a long-haired creature in peg-top 
corduroy trousers and velveteen jacket, leading a 
fox by a string, seemed to excite not the slightest 
interest in the most rustic observer. He was 
French and one of them; we were foreigners, out- 
casts, axiomatically queer. But if for nothing 
else, I shall remember Saint Malo for the joy 
of that bath, a hot bath, un grand bain, — O, la la! 

Early the next morning we climbed into our 
cart, all the servants of the hotel watching with 



The Gray Sea and a Calm Stream 77 

ill-concealed scorn, and rattled happily to the dock 
whence ran the little steamers to Dinard. We 
found, too late to change our plans, that Bergere 
was terrified at the rocking boat, the strange 
noises, the smell of oil and hot metal. After 
tipping every human being within sight, we finally 
got her unharnessed, and harnessed once more at 
Dinard. Then, without so much as a glance at 
this famous resort, we breathed a sigh of relief 
and struck into the real country again, by secluded 
roads meandering beside the Ranee, hemmed in 
now and then by the stone walls of a village street. 
Our lunch at Miniac was spoiled by the sight of a 
drunken brute — I hope he was drunk — beating 
a horse on the nose with a club while trying to 
harness him, and telling all the neighbors and the 
priest who tried to interfere how " mechant " the 
horse was. Yet the people as a rule seem gentle 
enough with their animals. When the great carts 
pulled by tandems of two, three, or even four 
magnificent stallions would creak and groan up 
and down the hills, guided only by the voice and 
the deep, throaty " B-r-r-r-r-r," there was often 
a volley of good-humored cursing, and invariably 
a salvo of snaps from the long rawhides that 
sounded like pistol shots; but never once did I 
see the lash touch the patient brutes. In fact, 
even the snapping did not bother them a whit; 
nor was it meant to, for the driver was just as 



78 Brittany with Bergere 

likely to crack his whip when stopping as when 
starting. The sonorous rolling sound used to 
direct these workhorses struck my fancy at first 
hearing and, after a morning's practice, I thought 
to try it on Bergere. I flattered myself proficient ; 
but we nearly ran over a dog in consequence, 
and I was obliged to give it up. Just so had we 
been unable to make her understand the conven- 
tional English parlance in the matter of driving. 
She was eminently French and eminently feminine. 

As we drove on again, past a peasant tanging 
his bees, heavy clouds gathered and we had the 
first rain while on the road, a fine record consid- 
ering the cheerful prognostications of The Most 
Charming Man in the World. And even at that, 
it did not really rain till we reached the fasci- 
nating town of Dinan. But in our haste to avoid 
a drenching, we broke our rule and went to the 
first hotel we could find. 

The Hotel de Bretagne was nice enough, to be 
sure, but still a real hotel with electric lights and 
an office, and as such, our only source of regret in 
Dinan. 

Some words are as magic, empowered to con- 
jure up potent memories — of a pungent smell, 
of twilight reflected in a rippled pond, of strains 
of haunting music. Such a word for me is Dinan; 
its very mention seems to draw the mist of Time 
from my eyes, leaving me in an enchanted land 






r» u II » » '- ' 



L 




But no — she had not 
visited the town — 
the hill was too 
steep. 



The Gray Sea and a Calm Stream Bi 

of crooked, climbing streets, and houses of for- 
gotten centuries straggling down to the banks of 
the placid Ranee. We had dreaded Dinan be- 
cause it sounded so much like the fashionable 
Dinard; but truly the resemblance goes no fur- 
ther. 

No sooner were we inextricably settled in our 
quarters at the largest hotel than the rain ceased 
and we set out to prowl, with the ultimate inten- 
tion of dining at a small restaurant by the water's 
edge, spied as we drove into town. The Grande- 
Rue led us past the church of Saint-Malo, late 
Gothic and almost entirely reconstructed, to the 
gate of the Couvent des Cordeliers, charmingly 
sculptured. Then, turning into the precipitous 
Rue du Jerzual, we plunged down the hill. The 
street was lined with houses, still inhabited, the 
majority of them dating from the sixteenth cen- 
tury; but at least one antedated Columbus' 
well-known transatlantic voyage. Down, down 
through the Porte Jerzual into the Rue du Petit- 
Fort, and at last we found our little cafe, close 
by the Gothic bridge that spans the stream. 

There, by the side of the Ranee, with its boats 
tied up for the night, almost under shadow of the 
soaring Viaduc de Lanvallay, we seated ourselves 
in the calm Breton twilight and enjoyed the din- 
ner of our lives. Everything was perfect of its 
kind, but the haricots verts were divine. And the 



82 Brittany with Bergere 

vin de Bergerac was better than any champagne 

— though perhaps this was due to our mental 
association of one Cyrano, fighter, poet, and per- 
fect lover. A pretty young girl waited upon us; 
she was Monsieur Robert's niece (Robert being 
the proprietor) on a visit from the South, she 
told us; but no, she had not visited the town — 
the hill was too steep I How long had she been 
in Dinan? Oh, only a matter of fifteen days! 
After Decima had surreptitiously fed all the starv- 
ing cats and dogs in the neighborhood, and after 
Angelique had wished us a smiling au revoir, in 
answer to a promise to return on the morrow, we 
crossed the old bridge and passed back over the 
viaduct to the dimly lighted town above. 

The next morning we sought the Chateau of the 
Duchesse Anne of Brittany, passing on the way a 
statue of the ubiquitous Du Guesclin. It was a 
fortress of the fourteenth century, with moss 
clinging to the cracks in its grim keep, and it 
might have been full of interest could we have 
wandered at will. But to be dragged by a bored 
concierge through a heterogeneous collection of 
junk called a musee — stuff ranging in dusty dis- 
order all the way from Greek vases to photo- 
graphs of the facade of the cathedral of Amiens 

— was dully monotonous. Aside from the heav- 
ily vaulted rooms of the chateau itself, the only 
object of interest was the original works of the 







All the starving cats 
and dogs. 



The Gray Sea and a Calm Stream 85 

horloge of Dinan, made in 1498. 

A stroll round the walls brought us to the Tour 
Sainte-Catherine, which commands a magnificent 
view of the valley of the Ranee. Thence we 
scrambled down to the river and, having ordered 
lunch at our cafe (for we felt a pioneer's pride of 
discovery), we set out to take a few pictures of 
the city, from the top of the hill down which we 
had driven on our arrival. But the day was warm 
and the slope was steep, and I soon relapsed into 
ease under a tree while Decima's artistic proclivi- 
ties led her to the top of the hill and back. 

As we sat by the water-side, lingering after 
luncheon, the Sunday crowds streamed by. 
Whole families sauntered past, bound nowhere, 
doing nothing, but enjoying the holiday and each 
other in the lovable way of France. The peas- 
ants with wrinkled, tanned faces, the women folk 
old for their years, their shoulders bowed with 
work no woman should perform; bare-legged and 
booted boys of fourteen; shy, curious girls — all 
in unaccustomed finery — they seemed truly a 
happy throng. Soon the " sportsmen " appeared 
in absurd costumes, and several ill-assorted crews 
disappeared precariously down the river. Then 
with a farewell snapshot of Angelique, and with 
many au revoirs and adietix, we set forth to climb 
the Rue du Jerzual. 

The figlise Saint-Sauveur in its older parts was 



86 Brittany with Bergere 

more ancient than the church of Saint-Malo near 
the hotel; but it was the usual extraordinary mix- 
ture of interesting Romanesque and flamboyant 
Gothic. The old part of the fagade was note- 
worthy for its sculpture; but the most interesting 
thing in the church — indeed, In almost the whole 
of this quaint town — was a granite block in the 
north transept. On it was carved In sprawling, 
ill-formed Gothic characters the following inscrip- 
tion: 



frir ^ t^i! itt^lf III I a % \nm\ 



Beneath was the Constable's coat-of-arms, an 
eagle with double head and outspread wings. The 
stone was supposed to contain the heart of the 



The Gray Sea and a Calm Stream 87 

warrior. What a tribute to a brave man — 
" whose body hes with those of the kings at St. 
Denis in France." Those few simple words told 
a story more eloquent than volumes of panegyrics. 
Turning, then, from this dignity, the tawdri- 
ness of the surroundings struck home with re- 
doubled force. Next to the monument was an 
altar to Notre Dame de Bon Secours; in place of 
mediaeval severity, here was only modern tinsel. 
The china statues seemed to speak a shallow pre- 
tense; even the long " candles " were imitation to 
within a few inches of the top. I do not criticise; 
the earnestness, the faith, the reverence, which 
inspired it all was too real ; but there was pathos 
in the very cheapness that spoke so eloquently 
of biting poverty blindly seeking salvation in a 
tin placard inscribed " Merci." And everywhere 
troncs, to squeeze, for this saint or that, the hard- 
earned sous from a tired peasant woman. Doubt- 
less no price Is too great for contentment of soul; 
but why must It be bartered for the pennies of 
simple, ignorant folk? How can men reconcile 
the ministry of God with trafficking In the igno- 
rance and superstition of untutored peasants? 
The picture rose before my mind of a French- 
Canadian village in the Province of Quebec, the 
home of poor but religious people; in the midst of 
unpainted houses rose a great cathedral, for all 
its tin roof, built by the labor of a parish that 



88 Brittany with Bergere 

could ill afford so unproductive a task. But not 
content with that, the priest taxed every family 
a yearly pew-rent of a hundred dollars, which 
drove many in desperation from the Church and 
from the town. Has history meant nothing; will 
Rome never learn? 



IX 

We Meet a Nut-Cracker 

THE next morning dawned with lust of travel 
strong upon us; Dinan, with all its charm, 
could hold us no longer — we were Alexanders 
with innumerable worlds to conquer in a fort- 
night. Bergere, when consulted, wagged her ap- 
pendage in approval. So the pilgrimage recom- 
menced, and we turned again toward the north. 

The road had lost nothing of fascination. 
Hour after hour slipped by, one mile joined an- 
other in the ever-changing distance, and still the 
simple scenes never palled. Here a new flower 
to add to our collection under the driver's seat; 
there a photograph to be taken — always with a 
reward to Bergere's patience in the form of a 
handful of grass. Each inn meant a chat with 
the country people over a cup of cider, the news 
perhaps of the crops, or how far we had come, or 
our destination — it mattered little what. And 
everywhere peace and contentment. 

Certain parts of Brittany are noted for the na- 
tive costumes. We had chosen not to visit these 
parts, so I should not complain. Yet in a coun- 
try full of beautiful coloring, the perpetual black 

89 



90 Brittany with Bergere 

worn by men, women, and children seemed 
strangely out of place. To be sure, it is cheapest 
and many could afford nothing else; for them I 
have only respect. But it is of bourgeois nature 
to skimp. Perhaps I ought not to use so hard a 
word; for it is certainly thrift which has made the 
nation what it is. But the wrangling, the hag- 
gling over a few sous on every occasion grows 
distinctly tiresome. 

Here my philosophizing was interrupted by an 
untimely break in the second-rate harness which 
M. Thiriot had bestowed upon us. A town was 
near, Ploubalay by name; and here we spent the 
night. We stopped at a rose-covered inn on the 
outskirts and asked for rooms. The landlady 
seemed immeasurably surprised at our request 
and said she had no rooms. Are some atiherges 
intended solely for "vend a manger"? If so, 
by what subtle distinction in the withered mistle- 
toe over the door is one to divine the fact? But 
the Hotel des Voyageurs, our lady continued po- 
litely, could give us very comfortable accommoda- 
tion. So we turned regretfully away, as though 
foreknowing our dissatisfaction. 

Comfortable it was, but no more could be said 
for it. The " help " seemed astounded at our 
appearance, and we were obliged to carry our 
luggage from the cart ourselves, while Madame, 
who was out, took so long to return that we spent 



We Meet a Nut-Cracker 91 

the greater part of the afternoon waiting for her. 
The stableman was the redeeming feature of her 
estabhshment, showing rare intelligence in attend- 
ing to the repair of our harness and in ministering 
to Bergere's wants. 

But it was not so much the hotel as the town it- 
self that was at fault. In spite of its Celtic name, 
which surely should have brought forth something 
of interest — " plou," meaning " place of " though 
what " balay " connotes I do not know — there 
was nothing to be seen except a sign warning mo- 
torists of the desirability of "Attention aux En- 
fants." So we strolled beyond the municipal con- 
fines, an operation requiring not more than two 
minutes, and lost ourselves in grassy lanes, with 
no sounds to disturb the evening calm other than 
those of many birds, and the chime of a far-off 
bell. 

The hotel dinner was surprisingly good, con- 
sidering the general unattractlveness of the ap- 
pointments; but the table manners of the guests 
were of the porcine quality found at Pontorson — 
only worse, if possible. The varying scale of 
noises that arose from the table, especially during 
the soup, would have been farcical if It had not 
been revolting. And, mirahile dictu, these were 
not the lowest strata of society by any means, but 
burghers of the middle class; indeed, several 
times I was present when small farmers were tak- 



92 Brittany with Bergere 

ing their dinner in their own homes, and the con- 
trast was all in the farmers' favor. However, 
there was certainly a material advantage in the 
musical method of eating — a great bowl of 
steaming cabbage soup could be made to vanish 
while silent consumers had made no appreciable 
headway. 

(N. B. Pioubalay, by the way, was a town 
which the drummer at Dol had characterized as 
" awvully nize " !) 

The weather next day was warm but delicious, 
and the little horse seemed anxious to travel; so 
when we found Plancoet merely a second Piou- 
balay, we pushed on farther in search of lunch. 
An inn outside the town suited our taste, but 
apparently we did not suit the inn's, for Madame 
said sourly that she had nothing to give us, and 
sent us half an hour beyond to Pleuven. 

And lucky we were that she did! Not only 
did the Veuve Lefeuve furnish us an excellent re- 
past, with superior cider — cidre bouche, bubbling 
at fifty centimes a bottle like the best champagne 
— but she led us across the sunny street to the 
cool garden which she warned us now contained 
nothing but vegetables. Very pretty it proved, 
filled with many roses and strawberries and other 
plants not usually classed as vegetables. At sight 
of which we would invariably exclaim, " Mais, 
Madame, ce n'est pas un legume! " whereupon 




The awful deed 
was accomplished 



We Meet a Nut-Cracker 95 

she chuckled in a most gratifying manner. After 
we had duly admired the little plot, tended so 
lovingly, we crossed again to the inn. Our re- 
quest to take her photograph delighted the old 
lady enormously. But she was stricken with fear 
lest the neighbors should see, so we stole back to 
the walled garden and locked the door behind us. 
And after the awful deed was accomplished, she 
fairly doubled up with glee at the thought of how 
cleverly she had outwitted them. 

Among the many things she related was the 
story of the nearby Chateau de la Hunaudaye, 
built in 1378 by a certain Pierre de Tournemine, 
and long since partially destroyed. " But it is 
necessary that you see the ruins, M'sieu et 
Madame,^' she added, " for they are very beau- 
tiful." We needed little urging and soon reached 
the inn which she had described as the jumping-off 
place where we must leave the car. Tying Bergere 
to the wall, we disappeared into the outskirts of 
the Foret de la Hunaudaye. Madame Lefeuve 
had intimated that the road was not good enough 
for driving; and It was well we took the hint — 
which was a mild statement of the case — for we 
should assuredly have killed Bergere and our- 
selves to boot, in the first half mile. It was merely 
a rude trail through the woods, with great ruts 
worn into the hard-baked mud by the sturdy 
wheels of peasant-wagons — ruts which would 



96 Brittany with Bergere 

have snapped Bergere's tiny legs like match-sticks. 
Here and there was a thatched cottage, the ridge- 
pole lined with growing grasses. Once we passed 
several clustered in a hamlet with its communal 
bread-oven by the road-side. On we toiled over 
the road which grew every minute more abom- 
inable, until we were in danger of drowning in 
the water collected in the ravine into which the 
lane had gradually sunk, as is the wont of neg- 
lected highways. The sun beat mercilessly on our 
tweed-clad backs, until we felt that the " deux 
petits kilometres " of our informant had been 
measured with seven league boots. We were all 
but ready to give up from sheer exhaustion when 
— we arrived. But the hour of toil was well 
spent. 

Five towers marked the corners of the once 
mighty fortress and chateau. Worn, shattered, 
covered with the ivy of centuries, they still had 
much of power and arrogance, with the charm 
of partial ruin and of silence. A sense of un- 
spoken awe fell upon us as we entered the yawn- 
ing portal, through whose idle slots the chains 
of a drawbridge had once passed. We found 
ourselves in the grass-grown court; everywhere 
gaps in the useless walls, fast decaying and cov- 
ered with a natural tapestry of green, spoke of an 
age gone never to return. 

Before us was all that remained of the grand 



We Meet a Nut-Cracker 97 

staircase — a few stone steps, beautifully carved 
in Renaissance style, now leading nowhere. For 
all superstructure was wanting except in one of the 
towers where wound a precarious stairway, giv- 
ing dizzy glimpses into the hollow shell whose 
carved fireplaces clung to the walls many feet above 
the ground. 

The fascination of the place sank into our souls 
and held us as though enchanted. Here was no 
droning guide to break the spell. Long we wan- 
dered in the vast enclosure, until the lengthening 
shadows bade us hurry. Then we passed through 
the silent gate once more and descended into the 
moat, overgrown with trees, bracken and heather, 
and up again to the edge of a swampy pool where 
frogs were croaking rustily. Here a woman was 
pounding with a rock a mass of clothes soaked in 
the filthy water, under the misguided notion that 
she was acting en hlanchis sense. She told us the 
story of the chateau all over again, adding that 
it was very old — " older even than I am, M'sieu," 
— and cackled sardonically at her grim jest. We 
left her still " washing " and struggled back over 
the villainous road until finally we reached Ber- 
gere, placidly regarding the wall to which she was 
hitched. 

Although it was not yet six o'clock, the small 
farmer and his wife (who kept the tavern to 
eke out a slender Income) were already at their 



98 Brittany with Bergere 

simple evening meal. It was pleasant to rest in 
the cool cottage and talk to them, as we refreshed 
ourselves with cups of golden cider. Our delight 
was immense at finding the man of the house a 
real " nut-cracker " — such was Decima's appel- 
lation for the old-fashioned peasant, derived from 
a small casse-noisette bought in Saint-Malo, and 
carved in the shape of a typical Breton of the old 
school. He was a quiet, well-built fellow with a 
steady gaze and the " mutton-chop " whiskers al- 
ready demodes with the Gallicizing of Brittany. 
And his resemblance to the little wooden figure 
in this instance justified Decima's sobriquet. 

Bergere traveled at her best pace after the en- 
forced rest. The road passed first through the 
" Forest " of La Hunaudaye and then slipped into 
characteristic French farm-land, intensively culti- 
vated and taking on additional beauty from its 
evident usefulness. In comparison with the miles 
of timber-land in certain of our western states, 
the term forest applied to a few hundred acres 
of carefully cut woods strikes one as humorous. 
Gradually, however, a change, unsensed at first, 
stole over the landscape. The houses became 
more scattered; here and there was an untilled 
field. Suddenly we found ourselves driving 
through an uninhabited, barren moor. One could 
not explain it; it seemed hard to realize that there 
could be any land in France where there would 




Another nutcracker^ by 
the way! 



We Meet a Nut-Cracker loi 

not be an attempt, at any rate, to make some- 
thing grow. Was the place haunted, accursed? 
The utter dreariness, the intense loneliness — 
not a human being was in sight — a faint chill 
that seemed to have settled about us, all lent 
too much color to the supposition. Profoundly 
I regretted so ridiculous a thought — yes, it must 
be ridiculous. I tried to whistle. The result was 
not melodious. I glanced at Decima ; she ap- 
peared rather distrait. " Don't be a fool," I 
admonished myself angrily, and vented my spleen 
on our little Bergere, with the result that in an- 
other ten minutes we were once more in human 
country. Then I turned to Decima : " Beastly, 
wasn't it?" I asked. "Yes," she answered with 
a little shiver; then with feminine logic, " but you 
needn't have spanked Bergere quite so hard, need 
you?" 

Out of loyalty to the sex, Bergere took that 
moment to go lame, thereby proving my un- 
necessary cruelty. So she limped ostentatiously 
through La Poterie — a village appropriately 
given up to the making of earthenware; and it 
was only as the lights were beginning to twinkle 
in the windows that we reached Lamballe. Here 
the stableman (another nut-cracker, by the way!) 
declared there was nothing the matter with her 
whatever; and I went to bed amply justified — at 
least in my own masculine mind. 



X 

Moncontour 

FOR ten days we had searched for a Pardon 
In vain — the nearest seemed always sched- 
uled for a date which would find us back In Amer- 
ica. But we had never despaired, and the ques- 
tion recurred over coffee and rolls. Our gracious 
hostess had wished us good-morning and asked if 
there were anything we desired. Our reply was 
that we should be absolutely happy if she would 
tell us where we could see one of the religious 
ceremonies for which Brittany is famed. " But 
that is easy," she answered. " The Pardon de 
Saint-Amateur takes place here in four days — 
next Sunday." She went on to tell us how, Sun- 
day being the fourteenth of July, the civil and re- 
ligious fetes would be combined, and showered 
voluble Information on us In regard to decoration 
and the fireworks that would honor the occasion. 
Which latter interested us not a whit. But our 
joy was so great at having actually tracked a Par- 
don to its lair, that we made no effort to check 
the kindly dame but heard her to the end, gloat- 
ing silently. To think that we should see un vrai 
Pardon/ It was perfectly true that it was not an 



Moncontour 103 

important one; probably there would be no pecu- 
liarly Breton costume; possibly it would be spoiled 
by combination with the French fourth-of-July — 
no matter, it would be a Pardon. 

But a change was necessary in our plans. We 
could not afford four days in Lamballe; we must 
go elsewhere and return. Madame suggested 
that we visit Moncontour. I am still grateful 
for the advice. So we spent the rest of the morn- 
ing exploring Lamballe, with the intention of leav- 
ing after luncheon. The £glise Saint-Jean was 
not of interest, except for its bas-relief of St. 
Martin which the guide claimed was of the eighth 
century, though it looks too excellent for a period 
so early, or so late, as you will. But Notre- 
Dame, built partially on the site of a mediaeval 
castle which had topped a sharp hill by the town, 
was quite feudal in appearance, with its great 
square tower rising like the keep of a staunch 
fortress. Indeed, as originally consecrated in 
1220 by St. Guillaume Pinchon, Bishop of St. 
Brieuc, it had been but the chapel of the chateau 
of Lamballe. We climbed the summit-tower — 
why do tourists always insist on getting to the 
top of everything? — by means of a stairway 
which wound tortuously inside a pier, and were not 
disappointed; the view over the surrounding plains 
was glorious. 

Bergere pretended at first a sore foot. But 



I04 Brittany with Berg ere 

when she saw that I was adamant, she rehn- 
quished her hmp with a resigned air, and trotted 
happily along through a country growing ever 
more beautiful as we approached the rolling hills 
to the westward. About five o'clock Moncon- 
tour loomed up, a village perched on the top of a 
hill and some of it spilling over the declivity. We 
loved it from the moment we saw its Gothic-Ren- 
aissance-Spanish church in the distance, hovering 
above fragments of old fortifications. 

The tiny Hotel du Commerce was a gem; had 
it not been for the inevitable glamour of anything 
royal, even the " Shield " at Hede, for all the 
Duchesse Anne, must have been eclipsed. Its 
squat, two-and-a-half story front faced the vil- 
lage square within a few paces of the facade of 
the £glise Saint-Mathurin. A very short, very 
rotund old lady, half-blind, greeted us courteously 
and told us the best rooms in the house were at 
our disposal for a franc and a half each. Then 
she called " Marie ! " and a frail girl with a sweet 
smile and a pitiful, hunched back came forward 
and would have carried our heaviest valise up- 
stairs. Again the Veuve Launay raised her voice, 
and Georges appeared with a " Bonjour, M'sieu 
et ''dame" and unharnessed Bergere. This com- 
pleted, what was our amazement to see him lead 
her in at the front door! Though in reality, it 
was into a sort of vestibule, whence led a passage 



Moncontour 105 

through the house to the isolated little stable be- 
hind. My room, small in proportion to the rest 
of the house, was on the third floor — there were 
three stories in the back, — and overlooked the lit- 
tle yard, where I could see Bergere being duti- 
fully scrubbed till her brown coat gleamed and 
her fat flanks swelled in self-satisfied fashion. 
Small as she was, she looked quite out of scale in 
the LiUiputian court-yard, where was scarcely 
room for her to turn. 

There was still some time before dinner, and 
we descended through the kitchen, its walls lined 
with a dazzling array of burnished copper pans 
and kettles. As we ended up again at the inn an 
hour later, there was a load of aromatic hay 
piled in the street before the front door. Georges 
was perspiringly engaged in hoisting it up to the 
attic ! The children of the village — bare-legged 
boys and curly-haired girls, the happiest youngsters 
we had yet seen — were rolling in the fragrant 
grass and scattering it far and wide. At first 
Georges treated the matter humorously and chased 
them good-naturedly away. But, like children 
big and little the world over, they did not know 
when to stop, and in exasperation he finally 
growled out a '' sacrrrre nom de Di'u " and made 
after them with a rawhide. I expected to see a 
crowd of parents called to the rescue; but the chil- 
dren took their punishment in good part and the 



io6 Brittany with Bergere 

last of the hay disappeared through the attic 
window without further interruption. 

I have tried to say as little as possible about the 
Breton cooking, lest I might give the impression 
that I am a gourmand. France is the one coun- 
try in which eating is apotheosized for me from 
routine into ritual. Further, were I to omit men- 
tion of this particular dinner, I should be guilty 
of breaking my word. For when I told the Veuve 
Launay it was the best meal I had ever eaten, she 
answered with simple eagerness — " You're not 
just saying that to flatter me, M'sieuf Then you 
will give me a good recommendation? " There- 
fore I repeat my assertion: it was the most sav- 
ory dinner I have ever digested, bar none. Again 
we were alone with only the poor cripple to wait 
on us. She looked as if she had never had a 
square meal in her overworked, underfed life. 
But she smiled happily, as though to see us appre- 
ciate the dinner were her greatest joy. Soup, the 
tenderest of chickens, the most delectable veal — 
though it took Decima half an hour to convince 
me that it was not lamb — with fried potatoes 
such as would have delighted the soul of Lucullus, 
an amazing custard, and the biggest, sweetest 
raspberries ever beheld. And all this punctuated 
with cups of wonderful saffron nectar known in 
common parlance as cider. 

Driving into the town, we had remarked a lit- 



Moncontour 107 

tie cafe in the original Flat Iron Building — a 
quaint house, built on a triangular plot of ground, 
about two feet wide at the narrow end. Dinner 
over, we retraced our steps, ostensibly for du- 
bonnet. When we arrived at the tiny hostelry 
we found a pretty, tired-looking woman and a 
drunken man, who we feared was her husband 
until relieved by hearing her address him as 
" vous." He begged a cigarette of me, and in- 
sisted that I light it for him, an operation requir- 
ing considerable skill in his unsteady, semi-speech- 
less condition. Then he must needs drink my 
health, clinking his glass drunkenly against mine, 
which attention was not greatly to my relish. 
We feared he intended to attach himself to us 
for the rest of the evening, but fortunately he 
soon lurched out, to the evident relief of Mme. 
Hamono. 

She was a sweet, refined woman with the bloom 
of youthful beauty still apparent in fresh color 
and fair hair; but the struggle of life showed itself 
in the tired eyes; already her face was marred 
by the loss of several teeth. She seemed to pos- 
sess a broader view of the outside world than 
most of the simple country folk, and she talked 
charmingly. She had once known une Anglaise 
(we were of course British), named " Mees 
Armstrong " who had taught her to say " good 
morning," " good night," " bad boy " and a few 



io8 Brittany with Berg ere 

other expressions which she remembered aston- 
ishingly well and pronounced with the delicious 
accent of all French women when trying to over- 
come the absurd intricacies of our tongue. After 
she had obligingly spoken a few words of Breton 
for us, we started to go. But to our surprise, she 
refused to accept any pour-boire ; and it was only 
after persuasion that she consented to take a few 
coppers for the three kiddies whom she had just 
sent to bed. 

The next morning, furnished with explicit di- 
rections from Madame, the Veuve Launay, we set 
out to see the Chateau Bellevue. It lies a kilo- 
meter or so from the town, and thence we intended 
to go across country via the old Moulin des Pins 
to the ruins of the Seigneurie de Vauclerc, passing 
the Chateau des Granges on the way. Bellevue 
we found a modern country residence. Des 
Granges we found also and, though it was evi- 
dently occupied, we were able to approach quite 
near to its severe fagade. But Vauclerc seemed 
to have disappeared from the face of the globe. 
After tramping for several miles in the wrong 
direction under a broiling sun, we finally retraced 
our steps and found the Moulin, a deserted mill 
on the edge of a sighing pine wood. Had we 
known, the old chapel of the Seigneurie was only 
a few hundred yards distant; but, being used as a 
farm house, it naturally did not reveal itself to us 



Moncontour 109 

and we wandered still further from our goal. 

At last, hot, exhausted but determined, we 
happened upon a frowzy mud village. I called 
through a stable door to someone who appeared 
to be talking to the cows ; and out came a genuine 
" nut-cracker," very old and minus most of his 
front teeth. He happened to be going by Vau- 
clerc he said, and would guide us himself, for we 
could never find the way from directions — cer- 
tainly a truth. Over fields and through tiny lanes 
he took us, panting and thirsty with the heat of the 
noon-day sun, while at his side calmly swung the 
bottle of cider for which our mouths were water- 
ing. And all the time he chatted and asked count- 
less questions in his naive, peasant way. Some- 
thing seemed wrong with our comprehension or 
the expression of it; for as often as we said ''oui " 
— meaning " yes " in the French tongue and in- 
tended to convey the impression that we under- 
stood — the old fellow would repeat from the 
beginning all that he had just been saying. 

But he was a genial soul, and when we reached 
the gate of the Seigneurie, — which, with the 
chapel-farm-house comprised the entire ruins, — 
he told us that it had been built by the devil in a 
single night. " But that's only a legend, you 
know," said he reassuringly, and went on to say 
that he was sure the devil had masons to help him. 
" You have masons in America? " he added doubt- 



no Brittany with Bergere 

Ingly — we had mentioned whence we came. 
When I remarked, to make conversation, that 
America was pretty far from France, he merely 
shrugged his shoulders and answered, " Ca se 
pent; I was never there myself." Then he 
marched us on the road to Moncontour without 
giving us a chance to photograph the ruins we 
had struggled so hard to see. So when we had 
shaken hands at the parting of our ways, I thought 
to make up for the loss by the picture of our 
guide himself. But the same inane fear of pos- 
sible expense overcame him as had seized Mere 
Lambert; and in this case no arguments were con- 
vincing. Muttering something about the hay 
needing him and his face not being pretty, he 
scurried down the road, leaving us with shamed 
feelings as though we had insulted him. 



XI 

We Make Several Mistakes 

MISTAKES will happen in the most 
Heaven-blest of trips and Loudeac was 
such a mistake. The drive thither was unevent- 
ful, and the town itself so uninteresting that noth- 
ing had ever happened there. I am well aware 
that there are a thousand such towns in my own 
country, but one does not expect to find them in 
Brittany. The hotel was wretched. And to add 
to our depression, in the morning while we were 
trying to eat our breakfast of unclean butter and 
bitter coffee at a dirty table on the sidewalk and 
only awaiting Bergere's pleasure in order to shake 
the dust of Loudeac from our feet, a most pitiful 
procession wound down the dusty street. It was 
a child's funeral. At the head of the long line 
walked the father, hat in hand, and under his 
arm the small white coffin. The only compensa- 
tion in the pathetic poverty was the great crowd 
of people, reverently following the little body to 
its last abode. 

Having got the mail — our one compensation 
for Loudeac — we gladly turned Bergere's head 
again towards Moncontour. At Plougenast we 



112 Brittany with Bergere 

stopped for luncheon at an inn where we had al- 
ready scraped acquaintance with the landlady. 
Hers was a very modest establishment, and while 
she was cooking a savory omelette on the great 
hearth, Decima and I fell to unharnessing Ber- 
gere. After considerable labor and much trepi- 
dation lest she run away, we led her into the wine 
cellar which acted as stable and tied her with a 
bit of rope to a stanchion — which she subse- 
quently pulled up by the roots ! Then, filled with 
appreciation of our own virtue, we went to lunch- 
eon, leaving Bergere to hers. 

Mme. Hamo was an excellent cuisiniere and a 
conversationalist to boot. Though her chief in- 
terest lay in culinary art, the details of which 
probably appealed to Decima more than to me, 
she could ask countless questions — and sensible 
ones, too — about England. And I fear we must 
have appeared sadly ignorant in regard to " our 
own country." The interrogations brought out 
many contrasts between the Anglo-Saxon and the 
French ideas of contentment. How many work- 
men, American or English, would work without 
complaint and actually save money, earning three 
francs for a hard, twelve-hour day? Finally the 
baby — the apple of the mother's eye and the 
never failing topic of conversation when others 
lacked — was roused for admiration. At the end 
I was obliged to kiss the brat, while Decima as- 




/ was obliged to kiss 
the brat. 



We Make Several Mistakes 115 

sumed a far-away expression and escaped scot 
free! 

It seemed like home to be in Moncontour once 
more, to climb again to the little rooms, to sit in 
the same stiff chairs with Marie to serve us. All 
unbeknownst to me, Decima had bought her a 
trinket, and how the poor creature's eyes spoke 
as she tried to express her gratitude ! 

Dinner over, we strolled down hill for a chat 
with our friend Mme. Hamono, buying a few 
sweets for the children on the way. She seemed 
glad to see us and was vastly amazed to learn that 
English and " American " are the same language. 
But a pleasant evening was marred, as the poor 
woman refused to accept pay for our hocks " be- 
cause we had been so nice to the little ones." 

Early the next morning we set forth in a pour- 
ing rain to visit the Chapel of Notre-Dame du 
Haut, situated on top of a hill some distance from 
the town, and reached only by a steep wood-path. 
The farmer who was the custodian of the keys 
gladly lent them to us — huge iron affairs they 
were — and we explored the sanctuary undis- 
turbed. It was small and crude and quite de- 
serted except for a row of wooden saints. Each 
of the seven was supposed to be able to cure cer- 
tain maladies, which occult powers the quaint fig- 
ures advertised in naVve manner. But in a coun- 
try where the pour-boire reigns supreme, even 



ii6 Brittany with Bergere 

saints will not work without compensation; so be- 
neath the shelf on which they perched was a tronc 
with seven slots in it, each labeled with a name 
corresponding to one of the figures. But I fear 
the Bretons of the locality do not receive the In- 
dividual treatment for which they pay. We, be- 
ing incredulous foreigners, tested the tronc to find 
that, instead of being divided Into seven compart- 
ments — a proper arrangement if each saint was 
to receive his due share of the tips — there was 
merely a large box Into which all the pennies fell 
in a promiscuous heap, regardless of the saint for 
whom they were Intended. 

Without even waiting for luncheon, we started 
for Lamballe, still in continuous downpour. 
Furthermore, we must needs try to visit the 
Chateau de La Touche-Trebry on the way. The 
Veuve Launay had not been very explicit; she had 
merely said, " Take the first road to the right," 
and we took it, though It looked narrow and un- 
promising. However, we drove persistently on 
over a road growing ever more rocky and steep. 
Almost before I realized It, we were face to face 
with a sunken boulder which completely blocked 
the way. To stand on the precipitous hillside 
was impossible. The cart began to slip slowly 
backwards, Bergere's hoofs scraping frantically 
over the smooth stone. Just as I was about to 
jump out and hold her head to prevent the death 



We Make Several Mistakes 117 

of all three of us, she gave a wild lurch and I 
pitched out into the road. A horrible vision of 
steel-clad hoofs and viciously revolving red wheels, 
the grinding of wood and metal against cold 
stone chilled my blood. Then darkness seemed 
to fall over me. 

My next sensation was a great surprise at find- 
ing myself, a crumpled heap, in a pool of muddy 
water. Aside from a slightly dazed feeling, I 
was my normal self; why should I be sitting thus, 
soaked with rain, alone in the middle of the coun- 
try road? I must get up or ruin my only suit 
of clothes. But how did I come there ? How — 
then suddenly it all rushed into my mind, leaving 
me in an agony of fear. Decima I — where was 
she? 

" My God, she can't have been killed I " I 
groaned; then, "But where is she? Where's 
Bergere? Where's the cart? There must be 
something left! " I staggered to my feet. By 
a miracle no bones were broken. I lurched 
blindly down the hill. At the bottom there was 
no sign of Decima. Mingled feelings of relief 
and anxiety filled my heart. " Decimal Dec- 
ima ! " I called futilely, breaking into a painful 
run. On, on until I reeled like a drunken man, 
and my shouts turned to sobs. Suddenly there 
was a wild pounding of hoofs, and a familiar 
voice sounded in the distance urging on a horse. 



Ii8 Brittany with Bergere 

Another moment and the cart dashed round a 
corner, Declma leaning forward and flogging the 
tired beast into a gallop. At sight of me she 
sawed madly at the reins and ground on the brake. 
"Peter!" she called, her voice quavering piti- 
fully, " Thank God you're safe ! " and she slipped 
insensible to the floor of the cart. 

As we drove the trembling, sweat-covered ani- 
mal quietly back to Moncontour, I heard the story 

— how Bergere had miraculously turned the cart 
in the narrow lane without trampling me under 
foot; how she had plunged down the hill and 
dashed on for two miles at breakneck speed with 
Decima clinging to the dashboard, every moment 
expecting to be hurled out; how finally she had 
been controlled and turned once more in my di- 
rection. " The rest you know," said Decima, al- 
ready perfectly self-possessed. I did indeed 
know and marveled at her courage and coolness 

— for she is a tiny thing, is my sister. We were 
very silent as we entered Moncontour. 

The exhilaration which follows an accident 
narrowly missed soon passed and left us tired. 
But by the time our clothes were dried and lunch- 
eon was over, youth was again buoyant and we 
vowed to see La Touche-Trebry or die in the at- 
tempt. The weather showed no indication of 
clearing — indeed, the supply of moisture in Bre- 



We Make Several Mistakes 121 

ton clouds seems on occasion well nigh inexhaust- 
ible — only this time we were more particular in 
our demands for information as to the route. We 
arrived wet and bedraggled. Seeing a scaffolding 
which betokened alterations, it never occurred to 
me that the family who owned it might be occu- 
pying the chateau. So I drove brazenly into the 
court-yard and accosting a woman at the win- 
dow, asked if one might visiter the building. She 
replied very politely that one might indeed, and 
soon a servant appeared as guide. Whereupon 
we learned that the lady whom I had hailed was 
none other than the chatelaine herself; and that 
she would be glad to have us take tea with her 
after we had seen her domain. We declined 
shamefacedly, aghast at our effrontery and the 
courtesy with which the lady had met it. 

The chateau was a curious mixture of fortified 
manor and modern residence and farm-house. 
But the pleasure of the visit was alloyed with the 
realization that we were unbidden guests. We 
hurried away through the wooded park, on 
towards Lamballe. Drenched with rain, yet per- 
fectly content, we must have been a curious sight 
as we drove along the highway, deserted of other 
vehicles. I cannot wonder that two little girls 
mistook us for devils and crossed themselves sur- 
reptitiously ! 

Finally we arrived at Lamballe and had to be- 



122 Brittany with Bergere 

take ourselves to bed during the clothes drying 
process. And a wedding party, tramping through 
muddy streets to the tune of an accordion, was the 
last sound we heard that night as we slipped into 
exhausted slumber. Truly, it was almost as pa- 
thetic as that other procession at Loudeac. 



XII 

The Pardon of Saint-Amateur 

THE song of many bells apprised us of the 
fact that the day of the Pardon, the day to 
which we had looked forward so long, was at 
hand. An air of expectancy seemed to hang over 
the little town, thronged with folk from every 
nearby village, keeping the crowds strangely quiet. 
Only the continuous shuffle of heavy shoes and the 
low murmur of many voices betokened the unusual. 
The Pardon de Saint-Amateur took place at 
half past two under a dull sky that lent additional 
solemnity to the serious scene. There were no 
curious costumes, no happy music, no wealth of 
color — only a certain sabbatical primness and 
discomfort in the black coats and frocks. Yet 
the earnestness, the reverence, the faith of these 
silent worshipers impressed me as I have rarely 
been impressed by religious ceremony. 

The Hotel de France looks up a narrow street 
which slopes gently from the central square of 
Lamballe. In this Place Cornemuse, outside the 
figlise Saint-Jean, the crowd collected for the pro- 
cession, which was to form there, descend the 
hill, make a circuit of the block and end again 

123 



124 Brittany with Bergere 

at the Church for service. Eagerly we hung from 
the windows (in company with a fox-terrier named 
"Thom"), watching the shifting throng — a 
dark, restless sea, dotted here and there with the 
bird-like caps of simple country women. Then 
from an eddy in the midst broke forth a thin cur- 
rent: the Pardon had begun. 

At the head of the procession paced the village 
beadle, or something very much resembling such 
a personage, clearing the way with a mighty hal- 
berd for a silken banner bearing the words 
*' Sainte Marie Priez Pour Nous." Behind, 
stretched in two single files — one on each side 
of the street — the men and women who had come 
to participate in the ceremony. Every age there 
was, and every condition. An old man bent with 
years hobbled slowly behind a young mother car- 
rying her sleeping child in her arms. Farmer and 
burgher, peasant girl and well-dressed woman of 
means, rich and poor — all were united in a com- 
mon faith. Many bore wax effigies to present 
at the church — effigies of an arm, a head, a 
foot, in plea of a cure or in recognition of past 
blessings from the saint. Here an old paysanne, 
pitifully lame, struggled along, her face radiant 
with calm hope. Many are the sick and crip- 
pled in the long files that round the corner with 
solemn step, the men bare-headed, the women with 
downcast eyes, all with unaffected earnestness. At 




Finally came the Gymnastes. 



The Pardon of Saint- Amateur 127 

intervals between the rows walked a white-robed 
priest, the furtive air of professionalism in his 
piety contrasting unpleasantly with the simplicity 
of the layman's faith. 

There was a break in the long files. Then 
passed the orphans — meek girls, each with a blue 
ribbon round her neck. More ordinary folk fol- 
lowed, giving way in turn to coarse-gowned nuns. 
Still more lay-folk and then came a little knot of 
priests, preceding the most sacred part of the fete 
— a precious relic, encased in a glass casket. 
One priest was playing a dirge-like melody on a 
deep-chested French horn. The others chanted 
a mournful litany. Behind walked two peasants 
bearing on their shoulders the casket, their 
browned, bearded faces standing out against the 
pale, shaven countenances of the clerics. Again 
more populace, now with banners — of the roof- 
makers' guild, of the Masons, of other secular 
organizations, but always with some emblem or 
motto of religion, some prayer to the Virgin em- 
blazoned on them. 

Finally came the gymnastes — boys from four- 
teen to twenty, clad in a most ridiculous costume 
of sky-blue, half-sleeved jerseys and bloomers, 
with white Tam-o'-Shanters from which depended 
blue tassels. Over each scrawny right arm was 
carried a dark blue reefer, except in the case of 
those in the front ranks who formed a fife and 



128 Brittany with Bergere 

drum corps. These wore their jackets, that the 
vigorous execution of their music might be unim- 
peded. To an Anglo-Saxon, the incongruity of 
their attire was ludicrous. 

Then the thin stream changed once more into 
the broad sea of onlookers — a sea that surged 
and murmured and washed against the sides of 
the narrow street. The procession, the entire 
Pardon except for the service in the crowded 
Church, was finished. The ceremony had been 
brief, with no glamour, no elaborate show. Yet 
the visitors who had come to participate must 
have numbered hundreds. Here, truly, was a 
people to whom religion was vital. 

An attempt to enter the Church would have 
been futile. Instead we strolled through the 
streets, watching the gradual transition from the 
solemnity of religious service to the festivity of 
national celebration. At a photographer's we 
stopped to inquire after films. But the gentleman 
had deserted his shop, and after waiting for half 
an hour in company with an absurd looking gym- 
naste — who was smoking a ragged cigarette and 
appeared much in need of a bath and a shave — 
went elsewhere in search. The druggist to whom 
we applied had evidently done ample justice to 
the Fete Nationale. He regretted politely that 
he had no films of the size we desired, but at our 
suggestion that we might find them in Jugon the 



The Pardon of Saint- Amateur 129 

next day, the implied comparison seemed to irri- 
tate him considerably. "Jugon!" he echoed 
loftily; " Jugon, dest un tout petit trouf " and he 
bowed us haughtily, if somewhat unsteadily, to the 
door. 

In the evening the village band played in the 
public square in honor of the holiday. The place 
was crowded — with patriots, we confidently 
imagined, mindful of the Bastille, jealous of the 
glory of the Republic. But when the first stir- 
ring strains of the '^ Marseillaise " fell upon the 
night air, not a hat was raised, not a man stood 
at attention. It brought to mind another Four- 
teenth of July, a number of years before, In 
Tours ; when the only enthusiasm displayed was a 
rather caustic humor at the expense of an obese 
general who tried in vain to scale the flanks of his 
horse. We left in disgust and returned to the 
hotel. Here we found a Dutchman who shared 
our sentiments. Besides his own unspeakable 
language, he spoke wretched English, fair French 
and beautiful German. The result was a pleas- 
ant, if somewhat polyglot evening, spent in the 
discussion of patriotism. 



XIII 
A Charming Hole 

JUST how and why we went to Jugon I am un- 
certain. However, that is an unimportant de- 
tail; suffice it that we got there. The cynical 
pharmacist at Lamballe had characterized Jugon 
as a '' tout petit trou " ; we found it delightful. 
There was little to see and less to do in the town 
itself; in so far it compared with Loudeac of un- 
pleasant memory. But between the utter monot- 
ony of the one and the restful charm of the other 
there was an immeasurable gap. 

Doubtless the freshness, the hospitality of the 
inn, its quaint estaminet, and its delicious meals 
helped to sharpen the contrast. Like its name- 
sake at Hede, the tiny Hotel de I'ficu was linked 
with the name of the Duchesse Anne. It was 
once a convent founded by her within a stone's 
throw of her castle; and on the great slab of stone 
which formed the kitchen fireplace, we saw her 
coat-of-arms. Of the chateau not a trace re- 
mained; the hill which it had crowned was now 
the inn-keeper's vegetable garden. 

The auherge faced the village square, at one 
end of which was the market — a building 

130 



A Charming Hole 131 

perched on an open arcade, like the broletti of 
Lombardy. Across the street stood the Maison 
Sevoy, which must have been almost a chateau 
itself in its day — A. D. 161 1. Now it was 
merely a farmhouse, the hall converted into a 
stable, the vast hearth filled with hay. And in 
another corner of the square was the village pump, 
placarded with a warning that this indispensable 
engine was open from six to eight in the morning 
and four to six in the evening. As the inhabi- 
tants seemed to prefer the former hour, there was 
but little sleeping in the Hotel de r:£cu after six 
in the morning. For the pump was old and rusty. 

As for the remaining objects of interest in 
Jugon, they consisted In the thirteenth century 
tower in the midst of an otherwise modern church 
and — the pond ! The Etang de Jugon was four 
kilometers long and the pride of the town. I fear 
our lack of enthusiasm for so tremendous an In- 
land body of water must have been a disappoint- 
ment to the citizens. 

Jugon was the starting point of a little excur- 
sion, long to be remembered. Leaving our lug- 
gage at the inn, we set forth to find the ruins of 
the Cistercian Abbey of Boquen, which was situ- 
ated just inside the two-thousand-acre forest of 
the same name. Had we known what was in store 
for us, I doubt if we should have had the courage 
to make the attempt. 



132 Brittany with Berg ere 

The road led past the Chateau de la Moussaye. 
The present edifice was of the most uninteresting 
period of French architecture, but four towers 
and a few crenelated walls of an older structure 
were still standing. And in the courtyard lin- 
gered several broken supports and a complete 
arch, ivy-covered, suggestive of other days. From 
the old chateau, a subterranean passage once ran 
fourteen kilometers to the castle in Broons, now 
destroyed, where Du Guesclin was born. 

The ruined abbey was not marked on our map, 
and the Guide Joanne warned us that we ought to 
have either a detailed plan or a competent guide. 
Nevertheless, we were obstinately determined on 
finding it for ourselves. Stopping at a rough inn 
to make inquiries, we were told that it was only 
two kilometers distant and easily found. With- 
out even knowing the name of the hamlet in which 
the aiiherge was situated we confidingly left 
Bergere In the hands of a strange man, and struck 
into the woods. At the outset a woman offered 
her services as guide, vouchsafing the information 
that we could never find the ruins unless we knew 
the way. But we disliked her evil face even more 
than the thought of getting lost. And besides, 
her assumption of helplessness on our part was 
irritating. So we rashly refused. Whereupon 
she followed us for a quarter of a mile, peering 
at us from behind a fringe of trees as we wallowed 



A Charming Hole 135 

in mud up to our shoe-tops in one of the gullies 
which seem usually to form the Breton country 
lane. However, when she saw that we continued 
to pay no attention to her, she disappeared sud- 
denly, leaving us very much alone. 

Two kilometers, forsooth! It could not have 
been less than five, and it seemed fifty. The road 
was fully as atrocious as that to the Chateau de la 
Hunaudaye, if not even more so, while the sun 
was hotter than I could have believed possible in 
the temperate zone. But far worse than either of 
these difficulties was the problem of finding the 
way. Countless paths ran off in every direction, 
any of which might have been the right one, 
and how were we to know? Naturally, being in 
a " forest," there was no one of whom we might 
inquire. 

The miracle was that we ever got there. Poor 
Decima was nearly exhausted, but would not admit 
it. I was in almost as bad a plight myself, and 
did admit it with frequent groans. But the im- 
possible does happen on occasion; in every blind 
choice of paths which we made, we struck the 
right one. Suddenly we emerged from the woods 
and found ourselves on an open hill-top, looking 
down on the ruins below. 

Quite roofless they were, with the branches of 
giant trees protruding above Ivy-draped walls. A 
great arcade was walled up, and the encroaching 



136 Brittany with Berg ere 

ground had risen half way to the Romanesque 
capitals. Only the choir of the church was of 
the fourteenth century; the rest of the building 
had been founded in 1137 by a lord of Dinan. 
Several farmhouses nestled about the ruins, look- 
ing suspiciously like adaptations of chapel, chap- 
ter-house or what not. Into one of these houses 
we were invited by a kindly old woman who was 
grinding fresh pig into most unattractive-looking 
sausage, and who revived us for the return trip 
with some welcome cider. We had little time to 
spare, for it had taken us an hour and a half to 
find the abbey, instead of the " little half hour " 
which our friend at the inn had cheerfully calcu- 
lated, and it was still far to drive before din- 
ner. Then back again we labored over the same 
fearful roads, till at last the inn hove in sight 
once more. While Bergere was being harnessed, 
we had a heated argument with three countrymen 
— one of whom addressed each of us as " tu! " — 
as to the distance we had covered and none would 
admit that it was more than two kilometers each 
way. I cling to the theory of a possible fifty. 

A thunder storm kept us awake during the first 
half of the night, and the village pump achieved 
the same end during the second half. Conse- 
quently, when we hobbled down to breakfast, stiff 
in every joint from our exertions of the day be- 
fore, we simultaneously proposed a day's rest. 



A Charming Hole 137 

It was deliciously pleasant to do nothing, for 
there was no feeling of guilt at missing anything : 
there was nothing to miss. So we sat in the 
estaminet and wrote letters; and sat under the 
awning in front of the inn and watched the sleepy 
little town. There goes the priest on his rounds, 
a Bible tucked under his arm. Down the hill, 
past the Maison Sevoy, comes an old cripple 
pulled in a little cart at a rattling pace by two 
panting dogs. Across the way, a team stops at 
the smithy amid a volley of snaps from the long 
whip. And everywhere the women are working 
as hard as the men, trudging along the dusty street 
under great loads of faggots, or weighed down 
with buckets of water. The extraordinary thing 
is that many of them should be so well dressed — 
far better than at Lamballe, which despises this 
town as an " entirely small hole." Their blouses 
fit (so Decima says) and, wonder of wonders, 
their skirts are hobble ! 

That night there was no thunder, and the pump 
seemed strangely quiet. It was all that was neces- 
sary to complete our day of rest. 



XIV 

The Ejection of Jean Marie Pihuit 

(A drama in one act) 
Scene : Est amine t de V Hotel de I' Ecu, Jug on. 
Time: Half past six of a July afternoon. 

Dramatis Person^: 
M. SoQUET, patron of the " Shield." 
Mme. Soquet. 

Her Sister, the maid-of-all-work. 
An Officer of the Octroi. 
Decima, an American lady. 
Peter, her brother. 
Jean Marie Pihuit, an inebriate. 

COLLARLESS PERSONAGE. 

Postman, Villagers, etc. 

At the rising of the curtain, all the clients of the 
hotel are engaged in drinking and smoking ex- 
cept Decima, who is drinking and writing. 

DECIMA 
[Suddenly, in English."] Is someone looking 
over my shoulder? 

PETER 

[Looking up and discovering Inebriate in straw 
138 



The Ejection of Jean Marie Pihuit 139 

hat and rough clothes swaying slightly back of 
Decima and trying vainly to read her writing,'] 
Why, so there is! [^Glares at Inebriate.] 

M. SOQUET 

{^Noticing Inebriate, who pays no attention to 
glares.] Here, now — that does not go. 

\_Inebriate bangs into table. Decima and Peter 
glare in concert.] 

M. SOQUET 

Get out of here. I don't want you. 

INEBRIATE 

But why? I paid for a drink yesterday. 

M. SOQUET 

But what a drink — only a little glass ! 

INEBRIATE 

I paid for a glass yesterday and I'll pay again 
to-day. 

M. SOQUET 

Never mind that, I don't want your money. 
Get out. 

INEBRIATE 

[Sitting down.] Jamais. 

M. SOQUET 

[Red in the face but rather timidly.] Go on 



140 Brittany with Berg ere 

— I don't want you here. 

INEBRIATE 

Jamais! \^Bangs table with his fist; the glasses 
dance dangerously. All conversation ceases and 
all interest centers in Inehriate.~\ 

MME. SOQUET 

[Very decidedly — she is the man of the house- 
holdJ] Allez — filez. 

INEBRIATE 
Jamais. 

OFFICER OF OCTROI 

{^Important looking functionary with great 
mustache and stomach.~\ Get along, you. 

INEBRIATE 

Jamais. 

OFFICER OF OCTROI 

[Rising and laying hand on Inebriate's arm.'\ 
You'd better for your own good. 

INEBRIATE 

Jamais. 

OFFICER OF OCTROI 
{^Lifting Inebriate and pushing him gently. '\ 
I've spoken it once; I won't speak it again. 

INEBRIATE 

{^Folding arms in Napoleonic attitude."] But 
no — it is not right. 



The Ejection of Jean Marie Pihuif 141 

COLLARLESS PERSONAGE 

[From distant corner.'] Get along thou ! 
What dost thou wish to do? If the gentleman 
does not wish to serve thee, there is nothing to 
do. Think thou ! — suppose it were in thine own 
house? Va-t-en, alors! 

INEBRIATE 

\_JVeakening.'\ Mais — 

OFFICER OF OCTROI 

[Seeing opportunity for heroic bravery.'] 
Name of a pipe, march! 

INEBRIATE 

[Sadly.] Eh h'en, I go. Adi'u, adi'u, adi'u. 
[Shakes hands with Officer of Octroi, Collarless 
Personage, M. Soquet, Mme. Soquet, etc., and 
exit, sorrowfully, to tell history of his life to 
crowd on sidewalk. Officer of Octroi walks im- 
portantly hack to table, sits down, puffs cigarette 
— a present from admiring postman — • tells how 
it was done, finishes drink, shakes hands with all 
present, removes hat, exit. Exeunt omnes. 
Curtain.] 



XV 
The Little Sisters 

THERE are apparently numberless hostelries 
in Brittany known as the Hotel de France. 
Mme. Legault keeps a very nice one at Broons, a 
morning's drive from Jugon. She furnished us 
an excellent lunch which, in the absence of the 
maid-of-all-work, was served by her pretty but 
somewhat haughty daughter. When she found 
that we were bound for Caulnes, she strongly ad- 
vised that we go via Yvignac, so as to see a cha- 
teau there and pay a visit to her sister-in-law, who 
likewise kept an inn. While we were waiting for 
Bergere, we stepped across the square to see the 
church, which Madame assured us was " of a 
beautiful style," and found it without any style at 
all. This rather discouraged us, but still we de- 
cided to essay Yvignac. 

On arriving chez Legault at this place, we pre- 
sented our credentials so to speak, and were most 
hospitably received. After inquiring about the 
health of her relatives in Broons, Madame started 
us off on the road to the Chateau d'Yvignac with 
her daughter Victorine, aged eleven, perched on 
Decima's lap to act as guide. The road was of 

14a 



The Little Sisters 143 

the ravine type, and VIctorine was so shy that she 
let us drive several hundred unnecessary yards be- 
fore she could summon sufficient courage to tell us 
that we had passed the lane which led to our 
destination. And even when she had screwed up 
her courage to the point of advising us of our mis- 
take, she was so afflicted with a cold in her little 
tow head, that it took us several hundred yards 
more to discover what she was trying to say. 

The chateau was to all intents and purposes 
nothing more than a big farmhouse. To be sure, 
it had been begun just before the Revolution as a 
handsome residence; but after the turmoil sub- 
sided, it had never been completed as originally 
intended; most of the windows had been blocked 
up and rough floors hastily added to enable the 
house to serve its present purpose. We climbed 
to the second story under the guidance of Vic- 
torine, where the keeper, a doting mother, re- 
galed us for half an hour on weak cider and 
stories about her progeny — an infant called 
Madeleine and a nine year old boy cursed with 
the name of John-Mary. Finally she conde- 
scended to show us the chateau, though there 
proved little to see. Even the vaults, which 
sounded so full of possibilities, were disappoint- 
ing; for the subterranean passage had fallen into 
bad repair, and was closed to curious Anglo- 
Saxons by a stout wooden door. On one wall of 



144 Brittany with Berg ere 

the building, however, were traces of an older 
chateau, and a short distance away was a crum- 
bling, mossy tower, the intervening space being 
marked as the ancient courtyard by scattered cob- 
blestones half hidden in the earth. 

The church at Yvignac had partly escaped the 
ravages of local religious enthusiasm, though 
Mme. Legault informed us that it was only under 
compulsion that the inhabitants refrained from 
remodeling the entire church. That being the 
case, it is a pity that compulsion isn't more preva- 
lent in Brittany, for even this church had not 
been wholly unmolested. However, the west por- 
tal and the first four bays of the nave were true 
Romanesque, the portly columns being topped 
with most delightful capitals. The tower, though 
remade, followed the twelfth century original, and 
gave a very striking effect as it rose above the 
entrance. And what a cunning little child's seat 
and prayer-stool within the church! 

At Caulnes the chief object of interest was a 
gypsy van encamped across the way from the 
hotel. It seemed to contain an entire family In 
ease and comfort, and suggested all sorts of fasci- 
nating possibilities for a future trip. But this 
family was the proud possessor of a duck, which 
was tethered outside the wagon and began making 
harsh noises at half past four in the morning. 
Furthermore, the breakfast dishes were washed 



The Little Sisters 145 

in the family tub; which cooled somewhat our 
ardor for that mode of travel. 

Our own breakfast over, we started on the long 
drive to Hede, sad at the realization that this was 
to be our last day on the road. It had all gone 
inconceivably fast ; it was hard to believe that the 
next afternoon we must be in Rennes, worse still, 
in Paris. But if it was the final day of our little 
vacances, we were at least resolved that it should 
be a good one. So we purposed seeing two groups 
of Druidical monuments that were marked on the 
map as existing between Caulnes and Hede; one 
group we would see In the morning, the other In 
the afternoon. 

But even the most laudable plans often mis- 
carry. At Guitte we stopped to purchase Infor- 
mation at the cost of two " petroles " — as we 
heard a fellow traveler jocularly term cognac — 
and the lady, while willing, was ignorant. Fi- 
nally, after consultation with several neighbors, 
each of whom offered a different suggestion, she 
told us to drive a mile or so further to an Inn 
called " Paradise " and that there they would 
direct us. 

Perhaps we weren't up to celestial standard. 
Whatever the cause, an old fellow with exactly 
one tooth in his gnarled head, who might easily 
have been St. Peter himself, " met us at the gate " 
and — turned us away. His excuse was that 



146 Brittany with Berg ere 

there was no one at home. No one at home in 
Paradise! The idea was depressing, if not 
actually preposterous. However, if we were not 
acceptable, we must give in gracefully; I thought 
with real sympathy of M. Pihuit at Jugon. So 
we turned sorrowfully away, in further search of 
information, and ultimate lunch. 

We found neither, in the vicinity. The high- 
way crept through the most beautiful scenery we 
had yet seen — real hills, real heather, even a real 
valley with miniature men and women turning 
tiny bundles of hay, far below us. But never an 
inn, nor sign of a menhir. 

The Continental breakfast seems by noon rather 
inadequate to the average American. Saint-Pern 
found us ravenous. As a result, when we were 
informed that we must go back the other side of 
Guitte to find any monuments; and that, the map 
notwithstanding, there were none in the neighbor- 
hood of Saint-Pern, flesh overcame the spirit. 
Luncheon had to console us for the lost Pierres 
Druidiques. 

Saint-Pern is the seat of a great novitiate of 
the Little Sisters of the Poor. The old custodian 
who admitted us through the stout gate even 
claimed that it was the Mother House, the head 
of the order throughout all Christendom. Les 
Petites-Sceurs, he went on, were at that moment 
there making their divine offices, but one would 



The Little Sisters 147 

come soon to conduct us. So we waited under the 
shade of a tall, cool hedge, and I furtively smoked. 
The Sabbath calm, the warm golden sunlight, were 
just beginning to make us drowsy, when a soft 
step sounded on the neat gravel path. I quickly 
trod on my cigarette. Round the corner came a 
frail, sweet-faced Sister, clad in the familiar garb. 
I uncovered reverently; they do a great, good 
work, these Little Sisters. 

" You are from America, are you not? " she 
asked in gentle, perfect English. " The con- 
cierge told us that there were two strangers here 
who said they were Americans, and the Mother 
gave me permission to show you the novitiate. I 
served two years in Baltimore," she added simply, 
looking at us directly for the first time. " Do 
you know it? " 

I could only gasp amazedly. Declma an- 
swered, " Why, Baltimore is our home. Sister! " 
Sister Marthe smiled momentarily. " It is nice 
to see you. I, was very happy there." 

An hour or more we wandered through the 
grounds, chatting quietly with the Little Sister, 
seeing all the great complex organization, learning 
many things that it is well for skeptical Protes- 
tants to know. The vast, shining kitchen where 
a few cook for the many; the bare, high-ceiled 
refectory; the broad, fruitful fields tilled by the 
Sisters; the little church, the beginning and end 



148 Brittany with Berg ere 

of their simple life — we saw it all. And for 
every year passed in this peaceful atmosphere, 
there must be many spent in hard, often thankless, 
service in foreign places. Their only pleasure is 
in the serving of others. Truly the world must 
be a better place because of the Little Sisters. 

A bell tolled and Sister Marthe bade us a hur- 
ried farewell. There had been not the slightest 
question of our faith; nor any appeal for support. 
It was a real pleasure to slip a few silver pieces 
into the tronc by the gate. The afternoon had 
been far better spent than if we had seen a dozen 
menhirs. 

The last day on the road passed all too rapidly 
— the last day of the magpies and poppies and 
bees, of the bright sun or the dull, gray mono- 
chrome that had grown almost equally dear to us, 
of the fragrant new-mown hay; the last day of 
the simple, country life and the kindly, unspoiled 
folk. The familiar spire of the little church at 
Hede told us more eloquently than any words 
that our journey was almost finished. 

The hotel was exactly as we had left it. The 
rosy-cheeked girl was just as cheerful and willing 
and happy as before, Madame looked quite as 
tired. Monsieur had lost nothing of his fondness 
for cards and petrole; even our rooms were identi- 
cal, unless it was that a little more dust had col- 
lected on the two plaster " ornaments " in my 



The Little Sisters 149 

nook under the eaves. Only we were changed. 
Our faces wore no longer the paleness of those 
who dwell in cities; Brittany had made us anew. 
But our spirits were damped by the approach of 
the end. 



XVI 

The End of the Road 

ON top of our regret at the finish of our little 
tour; In addition to our sorrow at parting 
from Bergere, it seemed almost too much that the 
memory of our first love, Hede, should be marred 
by perfidy. Yet such Is Fate. And the worst of 
it all was the remorse we felt at leaving so bad 
an impression on Bergere just at the end, after we 
had pampered her and seen her filled to burst- 
ing each day for three weeks. 

We left Hede early and In haste, so as to reach 
Rennes in time for luncheon. Great was our 
wrath, when we had driven the curiously weary 
little animal a few miles, to find that the card- 
playing scoundrel at the inn had neither watered 
her nor given her anything to eat that morning — 
nay, even the night before, so far as we knew. 
And this in spite of unusually generous fees for 
his supposedly good care of her. Though we 
could ill afford the time, we stopped at the first 
tavern and saw that she had a square meal and a 
large bucket of water, both of which disappeared 
with pitiful rapidity. " Poor little mouse ! " mur- 
mured Decima. 

150 



The End of the Road 151 

Our only consolation in giving up Bergere had 
been the thought that she would fairly trumpet 
with glee at being reunited with " Thiriot and the 
' boys,' " as Decima expressed it. When she not 
only showed no signs of joy at the sight of the 
Rue de Viarmes, but actually turned a dejected 
brown head and watched us plaintively out of 
sight after we had kissed her good-by on the end 
of her velvety nose, our hearts were nearly broken. 
Decima looked as though she wanted to cry, and 
I had an odd lump just above my collar. 

" They'll work her to death, now that they see 
she is so plump," groaned Decima after the stable- 
man had noted her condition with amazement. 
"Yes," I agreed; "and I know she'll never get 
so much to eat again." Now that I come to 
think it over in cold blood, it's probably just as 
well for her if she doesn't! 

Late that night we were in Paris once more. 
The frantic struggle to see many friends in a 
scant while, the opera, the Louvre — all the usual 
tourist activities in Paris, with an unusual gala 
performance at the Frangais, where all the mem- 
bers of the company who were not acting sat in 
the orchestra to watch Mounet-Sully take the lead- 
ing part in " Horace " — and then three days later 
found us watching France grow gray in the misty 
haze of the horizon. 

" Oh, Peter, our holiday is over and she'll 



1^2 Brittany with Berg ere 

never have another," sighed Decima, her thoughts 
turning to a small brown horse. We had reached 
the end of the road. 






■ ">^\y-;:i 


;.:.?. '- ';;' '.'i: ''--'''W i 


^-'11 


tr'y//^ 




iM 




^:e::'::;-|gM 


&^ 



ITv- 






^'V .■ ■»? 


; '..j[ 


■:-i^m 


5*'^; i 


■^A 




■;'■•'•:■•;*• 


' ■', '''■' 
(■ V 


M:''-' 



■.■•-.;>."?-^ 






